


Sunrise

by Sarah_Black



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, First Love, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sansa having her first adult relationship, Shameless Smut, Stannis having his first crush, behaving like teenagers really, canon compliant thorugh A Dance with Dragons, the angst in the 'angst and fluff and smut' tag is not to be ignored, warning: this story may or may not make you cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-01-16 00:44:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 51,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12332091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Black/pseuds/Sarah_Black
Summary: In a future where Stannis is King of the Seven Kingdoms and Princess Shireen is his heir, Jon Snow has left the Wall to become Ser Jon Stark and marry the crown princess. But after the wedding, it's the king who ends up going on honeymoon. ... With the groom's sister.This is an independent sequel to EmynIthilien's brilliant story "To Play It With You".





	1. A Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [To Play it With You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10992039) by [EmynIthilien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmynIthilien/pseuds/EmynIthilien). 



> I cannot thank EmynIthilien enough for first of all writing [To Play it With You](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10992039) and inspiring this story, and secondly for beta-reading this fic and making incredibly helpful comments. She is brilliant and wonderful! Any leftover weirdness/mistakes are of course entirely mine.
> 
> This fic can stand on its own, but I highly recommend reading To Play it With You if you enjoy exquisitely well written stories, and seeing characters like Stannis Baratheon and Jon Snow portrayed so well that you start to suspect the author is a wizard. (Also, there are totally some Stannis/Sansa moments if you squint and are highly afflicted with shipper goggles like me.)
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters. GRRM's eyes would probably melt from his skull if he knew what I was doing, etc.

“Princess Shireen tells me that the most beautiful sunrises in Westeros may be viewed from Storm’s End, Your Grace,” Sansa Stark said, interrupting Stannis’ thoughts with her courteous voice.

He didn’t register what she’d said immediately. Perhaps his wits had been dulled by the goblet of wine he had decided to drink to celebrate his daughter’s wedding, or perhaps he had just been busy observing his daughter and her new husband, Ser Jon Stark, dance with each other as if they had been born to do it. They looked happy, and seeing it made Stannis feel content. Shireen had chosen a worthy husband. They would rule well after Stannis was dead and buried.

The Seven Kingdoms were safe. His legacy had been all but secured.

Stannis was quick to answer when he realised what Lady Sansa had said. The subject of Storm’s End was always a pleasing one. “Shireen speaks true.”

“More beautiful than the winter sunrises in the north?” Sansa asked, her expression open and genuinely interested. She was not merely speaking to hear the sound of her own voice. But then, Sansa had proved herself to be a sensible lady. Though she was perhaps a touch impertinent at times.

Stannis thought back to the betrothal feast Lady Sansa and Lord Rickon Stark had held for Jon and Shireen in Winterfell. Sansa had somehow convinced him to dance with Shireen. When she had first brought it up he had thought it had been a display of impertinence, but he had ended up changing his mind about that.

 _”It would be a kindness, Your Grace,”_ she had said, her startlingly clear blue eyes full of sorrow.

He had realised in that moment that Lady Sansa would never have a chance to dance with Ned Stark at a betrothal feast of her own, but that his own daughter _did_ have a living father. A living father who was perfectly capable of dancing. And without another word he had risen and gone to Shireen.

Thankfully, there was no sorrow in Sansa’s eyes now, though they were just as blue. _Like the sea on a sunny morning..._ This wedding was a _happy_ occasion.

“You doubt my daughter’s word?” he asked, raising a brow.

Sansa smiled and looked down. “Not at all, Your Grace. I am only attempting to paint a picture in my mind. Could you describe it to me?” There was a pink blush staining Sansa’s cheeks.

_Probably just because of the wine._

Nevertheless, Stannis glanced around, looking for his wife. Selyse was standing off to the side, speaking to the High Septon. She was paying him no mind. _Good._

“No one sunrise is like another,” Stannis said, clearing his throat and focusing his attention on Sansa again. “And I’m no poet. Painting pictures with words is not one of my talents.”

Sansa looked disappointed, but she tried to hide it with a smile. “What a shame,” she said, gazing up at him in a way that was at once completely appropriate, courteous, and ladylike, but also uncomfortably… _sincere._

“Would you like to dance?” he heard himself ask, the wine and the stuffy heat of the room causing his own face to warm.

She looked surprised for a heartbeat, but then she smiled and nodded, clearly pleased.

Stannis was already in a good mood due to the occasion that was being celebrated; due to the son he had gained, and the happiness that shone from his daughter’s eyes, but there was something wholly _satisfying_ about the way Sansa accepted his offer with such evident pleasure, and it improved his mood further. It was almost as if it did not matter to her that it was his duty as Shireen’s father - and his duty as the king - to dance at least once with the sole female member of Jon’s family. It was almost as if she _wanted_ to dance with him.

Stannis did not make it a habit to lie to himself, and in the privacy of his own mind it was easy to admit that he wanted this, too. Not for any lecherous purpose - _of course not_ \- but it was not lost on him that he was dancing with one of the most beautiful, most highborn ladies in all the Seven Kingdoms. A _Stark._

A beautiful Stark lady that had not smiled the way she was smiling at _him_ at any of her other dance partners.

 _Even Robert might have envied me this,_ Stannis thought, noticing a few jealous glances here and there. Willas Tyrell frowned as they danced past him, and since Stannis had not yet forgiven the man for daring to suggest to Stannis that he should set Selyse aside and wed Margaery Tyrell, the sight felt almost as satisfying as the dance.

Focusing on his surroundings seemed to become less and less important the longer he danced with Sansa, however. Her hand felt very small and delicate compared to his, and the silk gown that came between his other hand and her bare back was very soft. He could feel the heat of her body through the thin material.

“I watched you dance with Shireen in Winterfell,” Sansa said, distracting him. “You made for a striking pair.”

Stannis snorted. _Striking._ A word that was only used when ‘handsome’, ‘comely’, or ‘beautiful’ did not apply.

“The Princess was the picture of grace, and you complemented her skill well,” Sansa went on. “You are so tall, Your Grace,and yet you move with such… precision. Often when I have danced with men of your stature they have trouble reining in their limbs.”

Stannis raised a brow and wondered which limbs Sansa referred to. He could easily believe that there was one limb in particular that _some_ men might have difficulty controlling when in close proximity to her.

“They can’t have been very disciplined,” Stannis said, the words coming more easily to him than they generally might. _The wine,_ he thought.

“Discipline is often an undervalued virtue,” Sansa said, smiling a little sadly.

Stannis thought about his childhood with Robert and could only nod.

“At least it often felt undervalued to me,” Sansa went on, her eyes far away. “I only ever earned the praise of my septa and my mother, but my undisciplined little sister won the love of every man, woman, and child she took the time to talk to.” There was a mixture of fondness and exasperation in her voice. “She was always Jon’s favourite.”

His hold on her tightened for a beat, but then he caught himself and forced his hands to relax. 

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, it’s just… being here… in King’s Landing... I can’t help but think about her.”

“I understand,” he said. He understood her more than he could put into words. He had always been the most disciplined one. The most dutiful one. Robert and Renly always did as they pleased, and Stannis was always there to clean up the mess. And the Red Keep reminded him of both his brothers every day. For years they had all had their roles to play in Robert’s court. Robert was ostensibly the ruler, Stannis his master of ships, Renly his master of law…

_And I was no one’s favourite._

Their eyes met for a long moment, and Stannis found himself fervently wishing to chase the melancholy mood away.

“Lady Sansa… would you like to visit Storm’s End?” his mouth decided to say. “You’d be able to see the most beautiful sunrises in Westeros with your own eyes.”

He felt a surge of triumph when Sansa beamed at him - all traces of sadness gone - followed by a strange swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach when she immediately asked if he would accompany her.

“A-accompany you?” He blinked at her a bit more than necessary now that she was clearly attempting to blind him with her smile.

“Only if the queen can spare you, of course,” Sansa said, her tone less excited and more courteous now. “I know you’ve already been away from her for a long time.” Sansa frowned for a moment, but then she brightened. “Perhaps she’d like to come, too?”

Stannis made a sceptical noise. The queen would not want to abandon the sept she was building, and she would hardly notice if he left for another month or two. When he had returned from his journey to the north she had acknowledged him as a wife ought, but Stannis was no fool. It had been clear to him that she had not missed him any more than he had missed her. “I doubt she’d want to go. It is the small council that would note my absence,” he said.

“You work so diligently with your council, Your Grace,” Sansa said, a clear note of approval - even admiration - in her tone.

“It is my duty,” he said, giving Sansa a sharp look. A king should work hard for his realm. It should be expected, not admired. Judging by her previous comments about discipline he would have expected her to understand this.

“Of course,” Sansa said, seemingly unruffled by his severe response. “But is it not also your duty to see that Princess Shireen and Ser Jon learn how to step into your shoes?”

Stannis tightened his hold on her again, frowning. Sansa had been spending a great deal of time with Shireen ever since they had met each other in Winterfell. Did Sansa find Shireen’s education to be lacking in some way? Did she seem less than properly prepared to step into his shoes? “Obviously.”

“And is it not true that the best way to learn is by doing?” Sansa continued, and Stannis felt the hand he was holding too tightly squeeze his in return.

Again he forced himself to loosen his grip. “It is often the best way, yes,” he conceded.

“Would you not agree then, that it would be a wonderful learning opportunity for both Princess Shireen and Jon to fill in for you while you toured the stormlands?”

Stannis narrowed his eyes. He could hardly disagree at this point, could he? He harrumphed, finding himself at a loss for words.

Sansa gave him a mischievous look.

The song came to an end, and Stannis was forced to let go of Sansa. He gave a bow and she curtseyed. Feeling a little awkward, Stannis offered her his arm so that he might escort her back to her seat.

“I will think on it,” he said as they walked, not wishing to excite any false hopes. _A fortnight hence might be a good time to start the journey…_

Sansa inclined her head, her face the picture of demure, ladylike courtesy again.

“More wine, Your Grace?” Sansa asked when they reached their seats at the table. “And perhaps a lemon cake?”

Stannis looked across the hall at his daughter again, and saw that Jon was in the middle of spinning her around. Shireen threw her head back and laughed, and the sight warmed him through to the very core of his being.

“Yes,” he said, reaching to take a cake off the platter Sansa offered while a servant immediately filled his goblet. 

“Lemon cakes are my favourite,” Sansa confided, a small smile playing on her lips.

Stannis had never been particularly fond of sweet breads, but he found himself enjoying his lemon cake more than he could ever remember enjoying a cake before. _Perhaps I ought to eat them more often._ The wine tasted exceptionally good, too.

Tonight it was as if life itself tasted better - _sweeter_ \- than ever before.

***

Sansa smiled to herself as her maid, Talia, helped her undress.

Jon’s wedding feast had been wonderfully enjoyable. It had made her heart glad to see her brother and his bride look so happy together. She had not known Princess Shireen for a long time, but she was everything Sansa had expected and much more: a worthy bride for her brother.

And it felt good to have a sister again.

But getting to know Shireen had meant getting to know her father, King Stannis, too. Shireen was after all very much like her father in many ways, and she generally mentioned him at least once or twice whenever the two of them conversed. And Jon mentioned him even more often than that.

Sansa knew that no one would ever replace their father in Jon’s heart, but it was clear to her that Jon and Stannis had forged a close bond. She doubted whether Jon could have found a better good-father for himself. They gave each other exactly what they needed.

Still, Sansa was not entirely sure what it was that made Shireen and Jon admire the king so much. There was a spark in Shireen’s eyes that was missing in her father’s, and though Shireen could certainly look forbidding when she tried, her father’s features were _always_ hard and forbidding. At least until tonight. Sansa had witnessed a different side of the king at the wedding feast. He had tasted wine, and he had looked at Jon and Shireen with love in his eyes. It had transformed him utterly. Not because he had been intoxicated - he had not imbibed nearly enough wine to become drunk - but because he had seemed… happy.

Seeing the way it had changed him reminded Sansa of how she had felt when she had finally returned to Winterfell. When she had been reunited with Rickon. After everything that had happened to her she had surrounded her heart with thick walls, and created for herself an impenetrable suit of armour made of courtesy and false smiles. Learning how to lower her walls and take off her armour had been difficult, but worth it. Life tasted sweeter now that she was not _constantly_ on her guard -- constantly afraid to trust.

She smiled and could not help but wonder whether the King was learning to let his own walls down. For his sake, she hoped so.

_Happiness suits him well._

It had surprised her when Stannis had asked her to dance. Before he had asked her he had only danced with his daughter and the Hand’s wife, and he had completely ignored his queen. But Sansa had been happy to accept his offer, and she was glad he asked her -- even if it would have been more courteous of him to dance with his wife before taking an unwed lady into his arms. And she had enjoyed dancing with him. Perhaps he was not the most graceful or talented dance partner she had ever had, but he had not stepped on her toes and he had not spent the whole song trying to get a look down her bodice. He had looked into her eyes, and he had seemed to truly _understand_ when she had spoken of Arya.

 _Of course he understands,_ Sansa thought, her smile fading away. His entire family is dead and gone. He only has his wife and the princess.

It had felt as if he understood more than just the pain of losing one’s family, however. When she had spoken of her own virtues feeling underappreciated, there had been empathy in his eyes.

She supposed it could not always have been easy being the younger brother of a king.

Her maid left, and Sansa went to her featherbed. Once she had settled herself under the covers, a smile began to tug at her lips again.

Stannis had looked a little flustered when she had suggested he accompany her to Storm’s End. She did not think she had seen him flustered before.

Would he truly consider going with her?

_Surely not._

Sansa dreamt of beautiful sunrises that night, and woke up feeling refreshed and at peace.


	2. Kingcups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments so far, and thank you especially if you took the time to check out To Play It With You! I swear it's worth every minute you take to read it.
> 
> This is a very short chapter, so I will try to update again soon!
> 
> Also, the amazing [sansafeels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansafeels/pseuds/sansafeels) made this moodboard for this chapter, so I just had to share it with you!
> 
>   
>    
>    
> 

A week had gone by since Shireen’s wedding feast, and Stannis had settled into a comfortable routine.

Or it would have been comfortable if the thought of going to Storm’s End weren’t constantly plaguing him. Every time he glimpsed Lady Sansa he’d be reminded of their conversation at the feast, and he’d feel a sharp pang of longing.

Storm’s End was Stannis’ first home, and it had been years since he had stayed there for any length of time. Would it be so bad if he gave into his desire to visit? Davos had proved that he could cope very well without Stannis present in King’s Landing, and Sansa had made a good point about giving Jon and Shireen an opportunity to stretch their wings.

Shireen had been taught well. She would make him proud. She always made him proud. And Stannis did not doubt that Jon would rise to the challenge. He had done very well as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. At least the second time around.

“Something amiss, Your Grace?” Davos asked, looking up from a pile of letters he had been sorting through. Stannis had a roll of paper in his own hands, but he had been staring at the message writ upon it without comprehending its meaning for at least ten minutes, letting his mind wander.

“No,” Stannis said, shaking his head to clear it.

“As you say,” Davos inclined his head and went back to frowning at his pile of correspondence.

They were silent for several minutes.

“I’m considering another journey,” Stannis said, pushing the letter away and getting up to look out the nearest window.

“Back north?” Davos asked, a note of surprise and confusion in his voice.

“South,” Stannis said, looking towards the sea. “To Storm’s End.”

“I - I see.” Davos cleared his throat and nodded. “When were you thinking of departing?”

“Soon,” Stannis said, looking at Davos now. “Jon and Shireen would stay here and assist you, of course.”

Davos appeared amused at that. “They are newlyweds, Your Grace.”

“I am aware.”

“Perhaps they should be given a little more time to -”

“To do what?” Stannis said, interrupting Davos. “Frolic by the sea?” He snorted. “They’ve had several days.”

Davos looked at him oddly for a moment before sighing. “So they have.”

“I intend to invite Lady Sansa and young Lord Stark to go along with me,” Stannis said, watching Davos closely for his reaction. “And the queen, if that is her wish,” he added as an afterthought.

“The Starks?” Davos appeared surprised. “I imagined they’d want to sail home soon. Have they expressed an interest in seeing the stormlands?”

“Lady Sansa has, yes. I confess I do not know whether Lord Stark would rather return to Winterfell. But I assume he’ll want to accompany his sister.”

Davos blinked at Stannis. “Lady Sansa wishes to see the stormlands?”

“Storm’s End, particularly.”

“And... you wish to accompany her?”

Stannis blew out an irritated breath. “Did I speak unclearly?”

“Apologies, Your Grace,” Davos said, looking down for a moment. “Would you sail to Storm’s End or ride?”

“Ride. I wish to inspect the Kingsroad. It should be in good condition after all the gold the Crown has spent on its maintenance.”

Davos nodded. “Shall I… make the necessary arrangements?”

Stannis thought of Storm’s End and of sunrises, and clear blue eyes. _This is folly._ “Yes.”

***

Travelling the Kingsroad with King Stannis was not at all like travelling with King Robert and Queen Cersei had been all those years ago.

There was a wheelhouse for her and Rickon, but it was not the enormous one Cersei had used. Despite this, it still managed to provide the two Starks with a suitable amount of comfort. There were also fewer knights and men-at-arms travelling with them, and no fools or musicians.

Travelling with King Robert had felt like a grand adventure. At least before they had reached the Trident. Travelling with Stannis was a lot more quiet. And much quicker.

Out of boredom, Sansa had taken to riding alongside Stannis for a couple of hours each day. Rickon tended to fall asleep after the midday meal, so it was usually then, in the early afternoon, that Sansa braved the outdoors.

“Did you torment your tutors as a child, Your Grace?” Sansa asked after five days of travel. She wanted to make sure Rickon kept up with his lessons, and had spent most of her morning trying to make him cooperate. He had been more interested in discussing Shaggydog’s accomplishments on the road so far. (The direwolf had felled a deer in the night, and dragged the bloody carcass halfway into the Stark’s tent to Rickon’s delight and Sansa’s dismay.)

“I do not believe so,” Stannis said, furrowing his brow.

Sansa hummed, wondering what she could do to help her brother focus, and missing Maester Luwin. Her brothers had always obeyed him.

“Why do you ask, my lady?” Stannis said, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“Rickon had no patience for his lessons this morning,” Sansa explained. “I think he misses our master-at-arms. He likes learning how to fight more than he likes learning history, proper etiquette, and memorising sigils and house words.”

“Renly was impatient too as a child,” Stannis said, his grip on his mount’s reins tightening visibly. “But though a competent lord must know how to fight, he must also keep from offending his bannermen, and he must be able to tell the difference between the sigils of loyal houses and the... less loyal ones.”

“I’ll tell him you said that, Your Grace,” Sansa said, wondering whether Stannis had ever spent much time trying to keep from offending his bannermen. In any case, it was a lesson Renly must have taken to heart. He had been very charming.

They rode without speaking for a little while, but Sansa felt content just watching the scenery pass by, and listening to the sounds of the horses, the groaning of the wheelhouse, and the faint chatter of the men and women that were travelling with them.

It was early summer, and everything was green and blooming. The weather was fair, the sky blue, and wildflowers grew along the side of the Kingsroad.

“Do you know the names of those flowers, Your Grace?” Sansa asked, only recognising the daisies and the foxglove. She pointed at a very pretty type of yellow flower she had never seen before.

“Do you mean the kingcups, my lady?”

“Kingcups!” Sansa exclaimed, delighted by their name. “I should gather you a few since they’re yours.”

“I have no use for flowers,” Stannis said, frowning at her.

Sansa smiled and shook her head. “I’m sorry, you must think me terribly childish.”

Stannis opened his mouth, but closed it quickly without saying anything. He stared straight ahead at the road.

“The last time I gathered wildflowers I _was_ a child…” Sansa went on, speaking mostly to herself. _And then I went to King’s Landing and my childhood came to an abrupt end._

“Compared to me, you’re still a child,” Stannis said, still staring straight ahead.

Sansa felt a twinge of annoyance. King or not, she did not appreciate Stannis’ tone. But she took a breath and made herself smile. “Then it’s settled,” she said lightly, “I will go and gather you the most handsome kingcups I can find.”

This made Stannis look at her, a bewildered, irritated expression on his face.

She grinned at him and pulled on her mare’s reins, telling the gentle palfrey to stop at the side of the road.

An attendant rushed to help her down from her saddle and hold onto the mare’s bridle for her, and she inclined her head in thanks before striding over to the nearest thicket of flowers, her shoulders squared and her spine straight. She could feel Stannis’ eyes on her back, and unless her ears were betraying her, she could tell that he had wrestled his magnificent destrier to a halt.

Smiling to herself, she went about collecting the beautiful yellow flowers as elegantly as she could, making sure not to dirty her skirts.

“For you, Your Grace,” she said upon her return, offering Stannis the little bunch of flowers with a curtsey. “Kingcups for a king.”

Stannis snorted and rolled his eyes, but he accepted the flowers, tucking the stems between two buttons of his doublet. “Will you get back on your horse, now?” he asked, glowering.

“Yes,” she said, pleased with her accomplishment. The flowers brightened Stannis’ dull brown doublet considerably. And if she was not very much mistaken, they had brightened his eyes, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](http://sarahtheblack.tumblr.com/post/166353628713/kingcups) is a picture of some kingcups. (That's my tumblr by the way. Feel free to follow me if you want.)


	3. The Parapets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your support so far! It means so much to me. ♥
> 
> And in case you missed it, [sansafeels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansafeels/pseuds/sansafeels) made a really beautiful moodboard for chapter 2. You can see it in the notes before chapter 2, and you can check it out [here](https://gayforsansastark.tumblr.com/post/166359540917/stannis-baratheonsansa-stark-sunrise-by), on Tumblr.

It was late in the afternoon when Stannis caught the first glimpse of Storm’s End in the distance. They had made good time today, and he had been expecting the sight, but it still managed to make his heart leap.

_Home._

Trusting that his Kingsguard would keep up, Stannis gave Black Storm a free rein. The spirited destrier was glad to ride forth at a gallop, and Stannis felt a surge of pleasure at the way the air rushed by, cooling his skin. He thought of nothing but keeping himself in the saddle, and of how soon he would be able to go to his old chambers and take in the familiar view from his private balcony.

As soon as he found himself within his castle’s walls, a heavy weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. He felt lighter, easier, more relaxed. _It was a good idea to come here._ His surroundings were familiar, and each nook and cranny carried a memory. Not all the memories were good, but that didn’t matter to Stannis. This was the castle where his lord father and lady mother had ruled, and it was easier to remember their faces in these halls than anywhere else in Westeros. If he concentrated, he could almost hear their voices.

His chambers were kept just as he preferred, and Ser Gerald Gower, the castellan, had the servants attend to his needs quickly and efficiently.

Stannis and his White Swords, Ser Andrew Estermont and Ser Simon Troter of the Vale, had reached the castle an hour before the rest of the party, and thus Stannis had time to bathe and change into fresh clothing before the wheelhouse arrived at sundown. Once the Starks had been given a chance to do the same, he had them brought to one of his favoured dining rooms for supper. Ser Gerald joined them.

“I did not expect you until the day after tomorrow, Your Grace,” Gerald said, sipping his wine with relish. “You must have made good time.”

“The Kingsroad is in good repair,” Stannis said, picking up his own cup and tasting the water. _Could use a pinch of salt,_ he thought. “And the weather was fine.”

“His Grace speaks true,” Sansa said, smiling at him. “The sun shone every day. I should have been more careful of it. My nose is covered in freckles!”

Stannis looked at Sansa’s nose. It was a very straight, delicate nose. The dusting of freckles did nothing to detract from her considerable beauty.

Ser Gerald, with his battle-scarred face, only laughed.

“Shaggydog liked the journey,” Rickon contributed. “He felled two deer.”

“Indeed?” Gerald said, raising both eyebrows. “And where might the beast be now? I have never seen a direwolf.”

For a moment Stannis frowned. Hadn’t Gerald seen Ghost at the Wall? _No… Gerald never came to the Wall,_ Stannis recalled. _He was protecting Edric Storm during the war…_ Stannis strained his memory, trying to remember whether the lad was now living at Storm’s End again. It took a second, but then it came to him. Edric was in the Vale, getting to know his half sister, Mya Stone.

“Sansa said Shaggy needs a bath before he can join me inside the castle,” Rickon said, sounding put-upon.

“Indeed he does,” Sansa said. “He stinks.”

Gerald laughed again, and Stannis felt his own mouth quirk into a brief smile. Watching Sansa and Rickon interact over the past days had reminded him more and more of what it had been like when Stannis had been Renly’s guardian. Life had seemed so much simpler then.

Everything had changed after the rebellion. After the siege. When Robert had given Storm’s End to Renly.

The injustice _still_ rankled, but the bitterness had been dulled by time and grief and war.

He looked at Sansa and Rickon, at the love that shone from both their eyes when they looked at one another, and wondered why his brothers hadn’t loved him like that. Stannis knew he was not an easy man to love, but there were people in his life who had managed it. _Shireen._ And Davos did not share a single drop of his blood, and yet he held Stannis in high esteem. Jon, his good-son, seemed to like and respect him, too. Surely his own blood brothers could have tried harder?

Things might have been so different if Robert and Renly could just have loved him like he had once loved them, long ago.

“Your Grace?”

Stannis looked at Sansa. “Yes?”

“Did you not hear me?”

Stannis frowned. “No. What is it?”

“I asked whether you’d have time to show me the castle tomorrow? Ser Gerald has offered to take charge of my brother. He is keen to spend time with Rickon and Shaggydog.”

“First we’re going to bathe Shaggy, and then Ser Gerald is going to train with me!” Rickon said, grinning from ear to ear.

“I see,” Stannis said, suddenly reminded of Edric more than Renly. He turned to face Sansa. “Shall we begin at sunrise?”

“So early?” Sansa asked, blinking at him.

“You wanted to know whether the sunrise in Storm’s End rivalled the winter sunrises in the north, did you not?”

“I - yes. Yes I did.” Sansa smiled. “Where will I find you, Your Grace?”

“On the parapets,” Stannis said. Up there he had experienced both some of the best and the worst moments of his life. Robert had never liked to go up there after the _Windproud_ sank, but Stannis had spent more time up there than he could account for.

He had been up there when Proudwing had first taken flight after recovering from her injuries. She had never flown very far. But she had _flown._ And Stannis had witnessed countless sunrises up there. Tranquil hours where no one had disturbed his peace. No one except Maester Cressen on occasion. 

“I will see you there, then,” Sansa said, inclining her head. “And now that I know how early I am to rise on the morrow, I think I will retire.”

Stannis and Ser Gerald rose from their seats when Sansa stood up, and nodded at her and Lord Stark as they made their way out.

Once Sansa and Rickon had left, and Stannis and Gerald had resumed their seats, Gerald let out a low whistle. “Never thought I’d see a more beautiful woman than that shadowbinder of yours,” he said, scratching his cheek absently.

“Do not speak of that creature,” Stannis snapped. He did not wish to think of Melisandre or of what the witch had made him contemplate. Not _here._ Even though Shireen had forgiven him for it, he did not think he would ever forgive himself. _I made the right choice in the end,_ he reminded himself, clenching his jaw. _I chose my own blood. Just as I chose my own blood when Robert rebelled._ “And you will show the Lady Sansa proper respect when you speak of her,” Stannis added.

Ser Gerald held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I meant no disrespect. I just meant to say… well, she’s a sight for sore eyes, isn’t she? I can see why you brought her along.”

Stannis felt his face heat up. “I brought her here because she expressed an interest in seeing Storm’s End.”

Ser Gerald looked amused. “Are you sure that’s what she expressed an interest in seeing? Sometimes when a woman asks to see your big tower she means something else entirely.”

“Did I, or did I not just command you to show Lady Sansa the respect she is due? I can relieve you of your ears if you mislike using them. Or perhaps I should find a castellan with a working pair?” Stannis asked, glowering at Gerald and using his most icy tone of voice. His blood was running hot, however, and pulsing at his temples.

“That won’t be necessary, Your Grace. Apologies.”

Gerald changed the subject to the castle’s upkeep after that, and Stannis’ heart gradually stopped racing.

The very idea that Lady Sansa might be interested in his… _big tower_ was absurd. She was a respectable lady with an eight thousand year old bloodline. She would marry a great lord one day, and have trueborn heirs. She would never want to become a king’s mistress. And Stannis would never take a mistress. He was loyal to Queen Selyse, and would not shame himself the way Robert had when he had worn the crown. The Whoremonger King they called him. That was Robert’s legacy.

_I will not prove myself to be like him._

***

Shipbreaker Bay was vast, and the ocean was quiet in the dawn light. In the distance, Sansa could see an island. The ocean around it seemed to be of a lighter colour than the waters further away. _Tarth,_ she guessed. Dew glittered upon the leaves of the nearby woods, and bird twittered and sang among the branches. The clouds and the sky itself seemed to be blushing in shades of pale pink, violet, and orange, and the horizon looked endless and inviting. The air tasted pure and sweet and smelled even sweeter. 

In short, the sunrise was more breathtaking than Sansa could ever have imagined. She could no longer fault Stannis for declining to describe it to her at the wedding feast. There simply were no words.

“Is it not the most beautiful sunrise you have beheld, my lady?” Stannis asked, pride filling his voice. It was almost as if he was responsible for pulling the sun up himself.

“It’s stunning, Your Grace,” Sansa said, squeezing the crook of his elbow slightly. He had escorted her up the stairs, and she had quite deliberately failed to let go of his arm when they had reached the parapets. There was a chill in the air, and it was warmer to stay near him. He did not seem to mind.

Her words pleased him. She could see in the proud way he lifted his chin, and the relaxed expression on his face.

“And Storm’s End itself? It meets your approval?” he asked, a trace of eagerness along with pride in his voice now.

Sansa smiled. “It is the most happily situated castle I have ever been fortunate enough to visit, and I am quite impressed by its appearance and the comfort within its walls. You and the princess were certainly telling me the truth when you spoke about the superior beauty of Storm’s End. And its sunrises.”

Stannis looked at her, and for a moment Sansa thought he might smile back. But he didn’t. His neck turned a little red, and he cleared his throat and looked back at the ocean. “I am not in the habit of telling lies.”

“No, indeed. You are one of the most honest men I have had the pleasure of knowing, Your Grace,” Sansa said, her smile widening.

Stannis snorted. “Most people do not derive much pleasure from being told the honest truth.”

She stopped smiling. “Most people are not me.” Sansa had been told enough pretty lies to last her a lifetime. Nothing pleased her more than the truth. The ugly things in life were not made any uglier by the truth, but the beautiful things… love, gallantry, and happiness… these things were all the more special when they were _true._

Stannis looked at her for a long moment, searching her eyes. She met his gaze steadily.

“You saw it happen, didn’t you?” Stannis asked, looking away from her and towards the horizon.

Sansa felt a dull pang in her chest. “Saw what happen, Your Grace?”

“Your father’s execution at the Great Sept of Baelor. _‘The false King Joffrey polluted the sanctity of the former sept with monstrous crimes’_. Were those not your words?”

Sansa hadn’t realised Stannis had heard her when she had said those words to Queen Selyse. She had been complimenting the queen for rebuilding the sept that Joffrey had defiled and Cersei had destroyed.

The ocean waves hit the shore at regular intervals, creating a soothing rhythm. A seagull cried in the distance.

She closed her eyes and drew in a breath. “They said he’d be allowed to take the black,” she whispered, the pain in her chest sharpening. “And then Joffrey -” She broke off, unable to say it.

“It was badly done,” Stannis said, his tone fierce, his stance becoming much more rigid. Sansa could feel the arm she was still holding onto tense. “Your father was no friend of mine, but he was a good man. He deserved a more honourable death.”

 _He did not deserve to die at all,_ Sansa thought. An old familiar pang of guilt twisted her insides. _Maybe he and Arya would still be alive if I hadn’t gone to Queen Cersei when Father said we needed to go to the ship…_

She swallowed. “If I had known there was no hope,” she said, a lump forming in her throat, “I would have been able to prepare myself. I could have handled it better. Been strong for him.” _And if only I had understood things better, I could have made better choices..._

“No amount of preparation would have made a difference,” Stannis said dispassionately. “You were a child.”

Sansa nodded and pushed her guilt aside. _I **was** a child. There was nothing I could have done._ She breathed deeply and distracted herself by looking at Stannis’ closed off expression. There was a deep furrow between his brows, and grief in his eyes. A memory stirred in her mind, a piece of information she had been given by the princess. Her own eyes slid to the bay: so quiet and seemingly harmless now.

“You saw your lord father and lady mother perish at sea,” she said, sympathy filling her heart.

“Shipbreaker Bay is no misnomer,” Stannis muttered.

“I’m sorry.” She wished there was something more she could say. Something she could _do._ But she had lost her parents, too. She knew there was nothing to be done. She knew there were no words that would soothe the ache. Only time could do that. And Stannis had had more time than she.

“It’s in the past,” he said.

Sansa wondered if it was her imagination, or if Stannis had pulled her a fraction closer. She decided that she didn’t care. She leaned on him, accepting the support he seemed to be offering, and trying to offer what strength she could in return.

They stood like that for a long time.


	4. A Misty Morn

“Who is the Lord of Storm’s End?” Rickon asked Ser Gerald one evening, his forehead creasing up.

As they often did after supper, Stannis, Sansa, Ser Gerald and Rickon were sitting by the fire in an intimate, comfortable chamber of Stannis’ choosing.

Gerald glanced at Stannis, and Stannis raised a brow.

“Storm’s End belongs to House Baratheon,” Ser Gerald said at length. “The King has named me castellan, and I will remain castellan until a trueborn Baratheon takes his rightful place as lord.”

“What trueborn Baratheon?” Rickon asked, looking even more confused.

“Princess Shireen and your brother, Ser Jon, will hopefully be fortunate enough to have children,” Stannis said, glancing at Lady Sansa as he spoke. She looked a little embarrassed. 

“Rickon, you would know this if you paid attention to your lessons,” she said.

Rickon still did not appear satisfied. “But, Your Grace… won’t your daughter’s children inherit the throne? And won’t they be Starks? Like Jon?”

“Rickon!” Sansa chastised. “I’m sorry Your Grace, he means nothing by it.”

Stannis pursed his lips, but did not bestir himself to rebuke Lord Stark. The boy was young. And he could well imagine Renly or Edric asking such questions in their youth.

“Princess Shireen is a Baratheon, and since she is the heir to the throne, her children will be Baratheons rather than Starks,” Sansa explained to Rickon. “Her firstborn son will be Prince of Dragonstone and King of Westeros. Her second son will be Lord of Storm’s End.”

“But what about Jon?” Rickon asked, blinking at Sansa.

“Jon will not father Stark heirs. You will do that. You know this.”

Rickon made a face. “Can’t you do it?”

Sansa glanced at Stannis for a moment, and he noticed that her cheeks were pinker than they usually were. “I will take my husband’s name when I am wed. My children will be my husband’s heirs.”

Rickon groaned as if his last hope had been extinguished.

Ser Gerald chuckled. “You will be keen to sire heirs soon enough, my lord.” He winked. “Once you get a taste of how pleasurable it is to attempt it.”

Stannis scowled at Gerald, and the knight coughed and fell silent, stifling his mirth.

Soon it was time for Rickon to retire. While Sansa was occupied with bidding her brother a good night by the door, Stannis took the opportunity to scold his castellan.

“It is not your place to fill Lord Stark’s head with nonsense about the pleasures of siring heirs,” Stannis said, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t carry over to where Sansa and Rickon stood.

“It’s not nonsense, Your Grace,” Gerald said, “it’s the truth. But I won’t mention it again if it offends you.”

Stannis snorted. _The truth, indeed._ Siring heirs had always seemed like a burden and a chore to him. He thought of his wedding night and grimaced.

Sansa returned to her seat, having successfully seen her brother off. “Are you well, Your Grace?” she asked, her expression concerned.

He tried to straighten up in his chair and affect a calm expression, but he could feel his cheeks burning. “Yes, my lady.”

Sansa looked doubtful, but nodded.

There was a drawn out silence, where all that was heard was the snapping and crackling of the fire.

“By the Stranger, I’d kill for a good musician,” Gerald said, obviously not well pleased by the quiet.

“I could sing if you wish?” Sansa offered, bestowing a sweet smile on the castellan.

Gerald’s expression brightened. “Truly?”

“If it would not disturb His Grace, of course,” Sansa said, glancing at him.

“As long as you don’t sing about the Maiden and the Bear,” Stannis said, waving one hand impatiently.

“Oh, but I like that one,” Gerald said, looking disappointed.

Stannis shot Gerald a venomous look. The man had helped save Edric Storm, but that did not mean he could speak as freely as he wished.

Gerald shrank into his chair.

“Have either of you heard _On a Misty Morn_?” Sansa asked. She was still smiling, but there was a strange, far-off look in her eyes. She did not seem to have noticed the silent exchange between him and his impertinent castellan.

Gerald furrowed his brow. “No, I don’t think so, my lady.”

“I think I will sing that one, then. Your Grace?”

“Fine, fine,” he said, waving his hand again. He was not one to enjoy such things as a rule, but he could not help but feel curious.

Sansa rose from her seat and stood next to the fire, smoothing her skirts and clearing her throat. Stannis tried to appear disinterested, but Gerald was leaning forward in his chair.

_Oh, have you seen my boy, good ser?_  
_His hair is chestnut brown_  
_He'd promised he'd come back to me_  
_Our home's in Wendish Town._

Sansa’s voice was high and clear as she sang, and after a little while Stannis found himself leaning forward a little, too. The song was a sad one, and Sansa was able to lend the lyrics a great deal of feeling. Stannis might almost have believed that she had birthed a boy with chestnut hair, though he knew she had not.

His mind played tricks on him then, and showed him an image of what Sansa might look like heavy with child, or with a babe at her breast.

_Beautiful._

Stannis squeezed his eyes shut, and shifted in his chair. Her future lord husband would be sure to appreciate Sansa’s beauty and the heirs she would no doubt give him. Stannis’ eyes opened and went to Sansa’s hips for a moment. They were shapely and suitably wide - especially in comparison to her small waist. Yes, she would no doubt give her husband healthy sons. He glanced - only for a second - at the curve of her breasts, and felt certain that she would be able to produce milk enough for all her children. Four or five at least.

But it was not for Stannis to dwell on such things. _He_ was not the one who would wed her.

When Sansa finished her song, Stannis had successfully pushed his inappropriate thoughts aside, but he did not think it would be wise to linger near her.

“I have some letters to write,” he invented, getting to his feet almost as soon as Gerald stopped praising her performance and begging her for another song.

Sansa nodded. “Will I see you on the parapets tomorrow?”

They had watched the sunrise together every morning since they had arrived. They had not discussed the deaths of their loved ones again, but they had shared more of the easy sort of conversation they had shared on the road. Sometimes they were silent, but Stannis had discovered that being silent with Sansa was much like being silent with Davos or Jon: not uncomfortable. Easy.

“Your Grace?” Sansa prompted, reminding him of the question she had asked. Stannis was tempted to refuse, but found that his throat closed up when he tried to form the words. 

He nodded.

“Good night then, Your Grace,” Sansa said and curtseyed where she still stood by the fire.

Stannis did not have a good night.

Three times he woke up in a sweat with indecent images of Lady Sansa seared into his eyelids, his cock aching and hard, and the taste of guilt and shame in his mouth. Three times he stood up, splashed water on his face, and told himself to stop this absurd behaviour. Three times he went back to sleep feeling discomfited and troubled.

The fourth time it happened it was nearly time to get up, and he could not help but groan. He did not feel as if he had slept at all. He was tired, and his cock was throbbing uncomfortably between his thighs.

Defeated, he gave into the shameful urge to stroke himself, knowing that it was the only sure way to make the torment _end._ He tried to keep his mind blank as he saw to his body’s need, but flashes of his dreams kept intruding.

Lady Sansa, naked beneath him. Welcoming him with her thighs parted, her cunt wet and ready. Her sweet voice in his ear as he sheathed himself deep within her, her heat enveloping him, her teats soft against his chest…

He gave a strangled grunt as he spilled, and felt his seed dribble over his hand and his abdomen, hot at first but cooling quickly. Soon it would be a sticky, crusty mess. He grimaced, knowing that he would need to clean himself up before his squire found him like this.

Stannis almost decided to forgo the sunrise, feeling that he could not look Sansa in the eyes after what he had done, but he had said that he would go, so go he would.

She was waiting to greet him, as she always was, at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the parapets. Offering her his arm felt substantially more _intimate_ this morning, but Sansa did not seem to notice that anything was amiss.

They said nothing as they climbed the stairs.

“You look tired, Your Grace,” Sansa said once they had reached their usual spot. She was looking at the ocean rather than at him, and he was glad of it. He looked at the ocean, too.

As fate would have it, it was a misty morning.

“I did not sleep well,” he said curtly, hoping to discourage any further talk on the subject with his tone.

“Sometimes I don’t sleep well, either,” Sansa said, her hand squeezing him gently where she held onto his arm. “Warm milk with honey helps me relax.”

 _Your skin is milk and your voice is honey…_ Stannis closed his eyes for a moment and clenched his jaw.

Sansa seemed to sense that he did not wish to talk, and remained silent after that.

They watched the sky grow brighter and the mist gradually disappear.

“Do you wish to take a husband?” he blurted out when the sun finally peeked over the horizon.

Sansa gave him a startled look. “I - yes. I suppose. When Rickon is a little older.”

He nodded. “Do you have someone in mind?”

She tensed up. “No, Your Grace.” Her voice was subdued. Quiet. He heard her draw in a deep breath, and felt her gaze on him. “Is there someone you wish me to wed? Lord Tyrell has hinted that -”

He looked at her so quickly that he hurt his neck. “No,” he said, cutting her off more loudly than he had intended. Lord Willas Tyrell was not as bad as his father, but the idea of Sansa marrying a Tyrell made Stannis’ blood boil.

Sansa’s stance relaxed, and a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Then why, if I might be so bold, did you ask, Your Grace?”

He swallowed and cursed himself for opening his mouth in the first place. “I thought it would be useful for me to know. As your king. In the event of a lord approaching me with a request for your hand.”

Sansa’s smile widened a fraction. “I see,” she said, nodding slowly.

Stannis looked out at the ocean again. The wind was picking up, and he could see the tops of the waves turning white. He tried to breathe evenly and push the horrifying idea of Sansa in Lord Willas’ arms from his mind.

Next to him, Sansa shivered. Without thinking about it, he pulled her closer, doing his best to drape a part of his heavy velvet cloak around her in a fit of gallantry. Only after he had done it did he realise that it was… unseemly. His heart started to beat uncomfortably fast, and he looked towards the stairs, wondering if they were being watched.

Ser Andrew’s white-clad figure was hidden out of sight.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa said quietly, glancing at him with a look in her eyes he couldn’t read.

He felt as if he were rooted to the ground. His half-formed ideas about taking a step back and pretending he had not just made of fool of himself melted from his mind.

“Princess Shireen told me that you do not intend to set Selyse aside even though she will never bear you more children. That you will not wed a younger lady and attempt to produce a male heir,” Sansa said after a while, their shared body heat beneath his cloak making the wind feel inconsequential.

“Queen Selyse has done nothing to offend me. She has given me a healthy child: a fit heir. I see no reason to set her aside.” And Stannis had never felt the need to endure a new marriage, another wedding night, the torment of trying to get a lady with child. When the maesters had told him that Queen Selyse had stopped bleeding with every turn of the moon he had been relieved. That part of his life was over.

 _Who is to say the fault lies with Selyse, in any case?_ a dark voice whispered from an anxious corner of his mind. _Perhaps I am the one who is unable to put healthy sons in a woman’s belly?_

He closed his eyes and tried to think rationally. But all that happened was that he started to see the images that had haunted him throughout the night: Sansa willing and naked beneath him. _With her it might not be a torment._ He hurried to open his eyes, his heart racing and his chest tight.

Sansa turned her body to face him, and his hands automatically went to her waist, finding a natural resting place there. If anyone were to see them, they would be correct to say that they were locked in an embrace. All that was missing were Sansa’s arms around his neck.

It was completely inappropriate. He could barely breathe.

“And I see no reason to be wed before Rickon is ready to be a lord in truth,” Sansa said, speaking softly since she was so close. Her lids were heavy, and she was looking up at him with darkened eyes. Her lips were slightly parted, her cheeks flushed pink, and the dusting of freckles on her nose made him think of cream sprinkled with cinnamon.

Something reckless and foolish overcame him. Perhaps it was due to all the unusually good and fortunate things that had been happening to him of late: seeing Shireen joyfully wed to a man of good character, being here in Storm’s End - the castle finally _his_ \- and knowing that the Seven Kingdoms were healing due to his efforts. It made him feel as light as he had felt at the wedding feast, though now there was no wine to blame. Or perhaps it was merely Robert’s ghost playing tricks on him? In any case, Stannis found himself doing something he would never have believed himself capable of.

He kissed her, pressing his lips forcefully to hers and licking insistently at the seam of her mouth. She opened for him, and then he kissed her like he had only ever seen men kiss when they were deep in their cups, thrusting his tongue in between Sansa’s lips, desperate to taste her, desperate to show her how much he desired her. It was hungry, greedy, and utterly wanton.

No, it was madness. Pure, exhilarating madness.

He groaned when he felt Sansa wind her arms around his neck and press herself close, kissing him back as if she wanted him just as much. Her tongue was wet and warm, and her lips full and supple. She tasted mildly of tea - something spicy - and of other things he could not define. He enjoyed sucking on her lips and she let him. 

By the gods, she let him.

His cock hardened when he went back to thrusting his tongue into her mouth, emulating the act he had spent the night dreaming of. The pressure in his breeches brought him back to his senses.

He disentangled himself and took a step back.

 _Is this who I am?_ he thought, breathing hard, his heart pounding. _Am I no better than Robert after all?_ His stomach twisted itself into knots. _Will I become known as Weak King Stannis rather than Just King Stannis?_ There was ice in his veins.

Sansa was standing still, looking at him steadily. The skin around her mouth looked red and raw, and her lips were swollen and glistening. And yet she looked every inch the lady. She did not look ashamed.

 _She should be ashamed,_ he thought, anger flaring up. _She should not have tempted me._

“No one need know,” she said at length.

Stannis crossed his arms and made a derisive noise. “You think this is something people will not chew on like dogs would on a juicy steak? Everyone will know.” He stalked over to the edge of the parapets, refusing to look at her. “They will take one look at your face and know the truth of what you made me do.”

He heard her approach and stiffened when he felt her presence behind him.

“I have not forced you to do anything, Your Grace,” Sansa said. Her voice was cooler than it usually was. “Nor will I.”

“Nothing will happen. Nothing more,” Stannis said, whirling around to face her, a scowl in place. “I will not be the next Whoremonger King. I will not betray my wife. My vows.”

“You could never be like King Robert,” Sansa said, looking at him with sorrow in her eyes once more. “You care about the Seven Kingdoms. You care about the princess.”

Stannis did not fail to notice that Sansa said nothing about the queen. Still, it was a relief to hear that she did not think he was like Robert. “You will keep away from me, then?” he bit out through gritted teeth. The muscles of his jaw ached.

“I have enjoyed our friendship, Your Grace,” Sansa said, looking down for a moment before meeting his eyes again. “It would sadden me to lose it. It has never been my intent to pain your or cause you any trouble. But if you wish me to keep away from you, I shall. Please know that I will always be among your most loyal subjects, however, and that I will always endeavour to do my duty to you and the realm.”

His heart contracted sharply, and he suddenly felt as he had felt when Sansa had spoken to him in Winterfell: eager to erase the sorrow from her eyes by any means available. Dancing with his daughter had been the right thing to do, however. It had been innocent. What Sansa’s eyes were making him want to do now was decidedly… not.

His hands itched to touch her. His lips longed for hers. He could barely breathe. Barely _think._

“I - we will discuss this later,” he choked out. Then he turned and stalked off, doing his best to outrun the voice in his head that was calling him craven.


	5. Wants and Needs

Sansa watched Stannis turn and leave, her heart racing and her stomach full of writhing snakes. When he was gone, she brought a hand to her lips, touching them with the tips of her fingers. They still tingled from his passionate kiss. Petyr had kissed her sometimes in the Vale, but never like _that._ She had never been kissed like Stannis had kissed her. Passionate wasn’t the right word… he had been desperate. Full of a hopeless, all-consuming need.

Her insides still felt a little… _melted_... from the heat.

 _We will discuss this later,_ he had said. She dropped her hand from her mouth and looked at the sky above. What had he meant? Had he changed his mind so quickly? Did he not want her to stay away from him after all?

She clasped her hands in front of her and looked down at her feet. She began to walk in aimless circles, her brows furrowed.

Why had he seemed so angry? Why had he blamed her when _he_ had been the one to kiss her?

 _I wasn’t trying to make him kiss me…_ Or maybe she had been trying? She wasn’t sure. It had all just... happened.

The wind pulled at her hair and her cloak, found every inch of bare skin, and made it erupt with gooseflesh. Sansa shivered. Without Stannis around to lend her his warmth, the parapets seemed freezing.

She decided to go inside. Walking down the stairs by herself felt intensely lonely, but she supposed it was good that no one was near to see the state she was in. Judging by the way his kisses had chafed, she was probably all red around her lips. Anyone who saw her would know that she had been kissed. _But if I make it to my chambers unseen no one need know who it was that kissed me…_

Once she was alone in her warm chambers, she resumed her pacing, unburdened by her cloak.

 _What will happen?_ she wondered, running through the possibilities over and over, trying to figure out what Stannis would decide to do.

Objectively, Sansa knew that the most sensible course of action would be for her and Rickon to leave Storm’s End, sail north, and spend the rest of their lives never seeing the king again. It was probably what Stannis would want, if his words on the parapets were to be believed.

But what if he decided that he wanted to kiss her again?

_Or do more than kiss?_

Sansa’s face became very hot, and her breathing quickened for a moment.

Tyrion had never lain with her, and though Sansa felt sure that Petyr had wanted to, he had never taken her to bed either. His plot to marry her to Harrold Hardyng had come to nothing. She was still untouched, though she knew much more about what went on in the marriage bed than most maidens. Petyr had told her much more than her mother, her septa, Myranda Royce, or even Tyrion had ever had a chance to.

Could she allow the king to take her maidenhead if that was what he wanted?

Sansa knew that he would not wed her. If he took her to his bed he would be taking her as his mistress, not his wife.

A very big part of her was appalled at the notion. The rest of her was… curious.

Sansa did not want to tie herself to a husband just yet. She wanted to stay with Rickon in Winterfell. She wanted to be free and unburdened, and she wanted to wait until she was _ready._ Ready to take over a new castle as its lady, ready to be a wife, ready to be a mother. She wanted to wait until she found someone brave, gentle, and strong. Someone worthy of her love, and someone who would love her in return. Someone who would love her for who she was, and not for her name.

She was not ready to have a husband. But now that she had felt her body’s reaction to Stannis’ kiss she could not help but wonder whether she was ready for one particular aspect of being a wife. An aspect that proper ladies were not supposed to even think about.

But could she really be considered a proper lady? After the Vale. After Petyr. Did she know too much? Did knowing how easy it was for a lady to lie with a man of her choosing - provided that she was discreet, drank moon tea, and made sure to convince her husband that she had lost her maidenhead to the saddle - make her improper?

She could have taken a lover a long time ago. But it had seemed prudent to be patient. To wait.

It had been easy to be patient in Winterfell. The men there were not unattractive, but they were all like _family_ , and she did not think of them the way she thought of Stannis. Stannis might be Jon’s good-father, but he shared none of her blood and he was… compelling.

In the past, when she had been tempted to wonder what a man might look like without his clothes, memories of Tyrion on her wedding night had often intruded, souring the exercise. But Stannis was as different from Tyrion as a man could be. Tall and masculine and commanding attention by simply entering a room.

When she closed her eyes, it was easy to imagine Stannis’ bare chest, and especially easy to visualise his well muscled thighs. She had noticed them more than once on the road when she had ridden beside him -- though they had been covered by his breeches then, of course. She only let herself wonder what his manhood looked like for the briefest of seconds before shaking her head and willing her cheeks to cool.

But they only burned hotter as she let herself remember how it had felt when Stannis had thrust his tongue between her lips, and how hot and hard his body had been against her own. The mere memory made her insides melt all over again, and she felt the need to press her thighs together tightly.

She tried not to think of the things Petyr had taught her, but she could not help but remember the things he had said about how a woman’s body prepared itself to be taken. How it was natural to become wet and slippery between her thighs, and how she should practise touching herself there, and learn how to pleasure herself. He had said that it would save her a lot of discomfort on her wedding night if she could make herself slick and ready for her husband.

That had been when Petyr had still been trying to marry her to Harry. That had been his official reason for those little… talks. But Sansa was not simple. She had seen the enjoyment Petyr had derived from whispering illicit things to her.

Sansa shook her head in annoyance, wanting to rid herself of her thoughts and memories of Petyr. _He’s dead and gone. He will never use me for his perverse enjoyment or his schemes again._

Feeling jittery and too hot, Sansa decided to sit down. Then stand up again. Then sit down again.

If Stannis asked, could she say yes? Could she be a king’s mistress for a little while and then just… go back to her life?

 _Everyone would know,_ she reminded herself, biting her lip. Stannis had been right about that.

Would any respectable lord want to marry her if she did this?

Jon would find out. The queen and Princess Shireen would find out. Sansa’s stomach plummeted as she imagined the looks they would give her. First they would undoubtedly be shocked. But then the disappointment would come. The anger.

 _Maybe they wouldn’t find out,_ Sansa thought, getting up once more and trying to get rid of her excess energy. _Maybe we could be careful. Discreet._

Her heart seemed to swell. _It might be worth it._ Stannis was, after all, certainly not interested in her for her name. And he was not the sort of man who was easily charmed by a pretty face. Not if Cersei was to be believed, and certainly not according to what Sansa had herself observed. His interest in her was something _real._

Sansa felt the ghost of his kiss on her lips again, the passion she had felt… the desire. She touched them briefly, thinking.

 _Life is not a song._ She wanted to marry a man who would love her for who she was, but Sansa was no fool. Likely as not she would have to marry for political reasons.

_Maybe this is my only chance._

She stopped in the middle of the floor, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was getting ahead of herself. Stannis would no doubt want her to forget all about the kiss they had shared. He had said as much on the parapets. His promise to talk more later didn’t mean that he had changed his mind.

_He wants me to leave him alone._

Sansa had to respect her king’s wishes.

***

Stannis had kept well away from Sansa for a day and a night. But now it was morning again, and he had resolved to talk to her.

_Where is she?_

He ground his teeth and paced around like a caged beast, determinedly ignoring his guard’s puzzled glances.

Sansa had always waited for him at the bottom of the stairs. They always climbed the steps to the parapets together. They always watched the sunrise. _Where is she?_

Soon the sun would be up. They’d miss it.

Had she gone up ahead of him? Stannis didn’t think it likely, but he decided to go up and see. He climbed the stairs two at a time, not caring that his armoured Kingsguard was huffing and puffing behind him. One would think a man of the Vale would be more used to stairs.

The parapets were empty, and the sky and the ocean did nothing to please him.

_Where is she?_

He scowled at the horizon, wondering whether he should go back downstairs and keep waiting, or whether he should send a servant to fetch her.

His scowl vanished when a worrying idea occurred to him. Might she have fallen ill?

Without considering the matter further, he started back down the stairs. He had to go to her. It was his duty to call the maester if something was amiss. Jon would be distraught if anything happened to his sister. And Shireen had grown so fond of Sansa. She would be upset, too.

He barged into Sansa Stark’s bedchamber in the pre-dawn light, his stomach in knots, Ser Simon several corridors behind him, and his heart beating much too fast. He only hesitated for a few breaths before he approached the bed and drew back the hangings.

Sansa was sitting up, her covers clutched to her chest with one hand, the other covering her mouth and muffling scream, a terrified expression on her face.

They stared at each other in silence for what seemed an eternity.

The terror faded from Sansa’s eyes and confusion took its place. “Your Grace?”

He swallowed. It did not appear as if Sansa were ill. “You weren’t waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs,” he said, frowning at her. Her hair was wild and untamed. Her arms were bare. Her nightgown - from what little he could see of it - looked to be a fine silk creation. He swallowed again, ignoring the twitch below his belt.

“I thought you wanted me to stay away from you,” Sansa said, blinking at him and furrowing her brow.

Stannis opened his mouth to respond, but couldn’t think of any appropriate words. The noise of Simon’s armour clanging around not too far away saved him from having to say anything. He snapped his mouth shut and hurried back to the corridor before Simon had a chance to see that Stannis had been inside Sansa’s rooms.

“Go find Lady Sansa’s maid,” Stannis ordered as soon as the knight was in sight.

“Your Grace -” Simon began, looking ready to protest.

“Did you not hear me?” Stannis snapped, glaring at the man.

Simon sighed and started to trudge down the corridor, muttering to himself. Stannis waited until he was gone, and then went back into Sansa’s chambers.

Sansa was out of bed, wearing a robe that covered her appropriately along with a puzzled expression.

“Do you not wish me to stay away from you, Your Grace?” she asked before he had a chance to gather his wits. There was a curious light in her eyes.

He rubbed his close-cropped beard. “We need to discuss the matter,” he said, trying to sound sure of himself.

Sansa inclined her head, a faint blush staining her cheeks. “When do you wish to discuss it?”

“Now,” Stannis said, dropping his hand and shooting her an irritated look. “On the parapets.”

Sansa nodded again. “As you wish, Your Grace. Shall I meet you at the bottom of the stairs?”

“Yes.”

Stannis would never understand why it took ladies so long to get ready. He was sure that he waited at least half an hour with a sweaty Ser Simon at the bottom of the stairs to the parapets before Sansa finally appeared. Her hair was no longer tumbling wildly down her back and over her shoulders: it was neatly brushed and tamed into a simple plait. She was wearing a proper gown. She looked fresh, alert, and as beautiful as always. There was no trace of the redness he had left around her mouth the morning before.

“Wait here,” Stannis told Ser Simon before he offered Sansa his arm. The knight looked relieved. He had clearly had enough of stairs for the time being.

Sansa took his arm more gingerly than she usually did, and he found himself walking a lot more stiffly. When they reached the parapets they broke apart and faced one another. They ignored the spectacular views that surrounded them, the dawn colours and the noise of the sea.

“My lady,” he began, wondering what it was that he wanted to say. When he had risen from bed it had seemed so clear. He had to make sure that Sansa knew there could never be any… intimacy... between them. He would not betray his vows, and nor would he sully her reputation. But he saw no reason for them to stop speaking to each other. As… as friends.

“Sansa,” she said, interrupting him before he figured out a way to voice his thoughts. “You may call me Sansa, Your Grace.”

His heart skipped a beat, and his mouth went suddenly dry. “Sansa,” he said, the word coming out in a hoarse croak. He cleared his throat. “You may call me Stannis when you deem it appropriate.”

Why had he said that? He needed to establish boundaries, _not_ encourage informalities.

“Thank you, Stannis,” she said, looking at him once more in that way that was at once perfectly proper but still so… sincere. “It is a good name,” she added. “Strong.” _Like you,_ her eyes seemed to say.

He swallowed and felt his neck heat up. Should he say something about her name in return? It was a beautiful name. It tasted like… apples. Sweet and tart.

_That’s absurd._

She was still looking at him. His body lurched closer without his permission. He felt as if he were falling from a cliff.

“Sansa…” he heard himself say. His voice was completely unfamiliar to him, however. An octave lower than it was supposed to be, and strangely raspy.

“Yes?” Her voice sounded odd, too. Breathless.

This time when they kissed, Stannis had no idea who started it.

***

Sansa had no idea how she had ended up kissing him again. It hadn’t been what she had meant to do, and she doubted whether it was Stannis had intended. Unless he had lied when he said that he wanted to talk. Discuss matters. But gods… kissing him was wonderful. It was absolutely nothing like Petyr’s kisses. They had always been controlled. They had also been strange, unfamiliar, and not entirely wanted. This was considerably more… wild.

Stannis cupped her face with both his hands, and his mouth was eagerly closing over her own. His tongue working on licking every part of her lips, her own tongue, the roof of her mouth and even her teeth. It was as if he wanted to eat her alive. It was hard to remember to breathe, and even more difficult to figure out how to respond to his fervour. When she tried to lick into his mouth in return he sucked on her tongue and rubbed the skin around her lips raw with his bristly beard. He was breathing raggedly and occasionally she heard desperate little noises from the back of his throat.

Everything about him spoke of a man who had fallen overboard and was clinging to a lifeline with all his might. She got the clear sense that if she were to push him away, he would drown.

It was overwhelming. Utterly and completely overwhelming.

When his hands trailed down from her face, grasping greedily at first her arms, then her waist and hips, Sansa wondered if she should touch him in return. She stopped wondering about it when his mouth moved down to lick and suck at her neck. Her arms simply wrapped themselves around him of their own accord. It felt natural. Right.

A moan that she barely recognised as coming from her own throat escaped her. Drawn out and needy, and like no sound she had ever made in her life. Her insides were melting again, and moisture and heat pooled between her thighs. Her heart was pounding so hard she felt as if she could hear it.

When she moaned Stannis answered with another one of those desperate noises. He pressed the length of his tall frame tightly against her, and Sansa felt something very hard and hot beneath his belt -- despite the skirts of her gown getting in the way. He was rubbing himself against her and sucking hard on her neck, and all Sansa could do was cling to him and try to calm her raging heartbeat.

 _It’s his manhood,_ she realised. _Does he intend to take my maidenhead here? Now?_

As soon as the thought occurred to her, Stannis pushed her away, panting loudly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m sorry.” Without another word, he turned and left.

Sansa stood still, feeling her skin tingle and burn where Stannis had kissed her and rubbed her raw with his bristles. Again. She stood still and looked at the ocean without seeing it, and waited for her heartbeat to calm, and for her blood to cool. She stood still and thought about what she wanted. About what the king clearly wanted.

By the time she moved, she had a plan.


	6. A Choice

Stannis woke up feeling confused. It was not waking up in the middle of the night that confused him. Since his dreams of Sansa had started it had happened several times. No, he was confused because he had not reached the point in the dream where he usually woke up.

Scowling, he rubbed at his face and blinked blearily at the darkness that surrounded him.

_What’s that?_

There had been a noise. He froze and listened. Had this noise pulled him from his dream?

Footsteps.

Stannis’ heart started to race. Had some assassin found him? Had his enemies hired a Faceless Man?

“Identify yourself,” he said, sitting up and trying to make his voice sound steady, unafraid, and intimidating.

The unknown person - _how did they get past the Kingsguard? Did they kill Ser Andrew?_ \- paused right by the bed from the sound of it. There was a long, tense moment of silence.

The bed hangings were suddenly pulled aside, and Stannis clenched his jaw and prepared to fight with his bare fists.

But then all the air left his lungs and his head filled with a dense fog.

“Sansa?” Stannis said, unable to believe his eyes. Was this some new dream? Was he still sleeping after all?

Sansa sat down on the edge of his featherbed. With the hangings pulled apart, the darkness he had awoken in was not as complete. As his eyes adjusted, he saw more and more. “Stannis,” she said, nodding at him as if they were simply acknowledging each other at supper.

He glared at her. “What do you think you’re doing? Ser Andrew will have seen you. Your reputation -”

“My reputation is fine,” Sansa said, cutting him off. “Ser Andrew left your door for a moment to investigate a suspicious noise nearby. I used the opportunity to slip inside. He did not see.”

Her words did not do much to put Stannis at ease. _I will have to have a frank discussion with Ser Andrew about the importance of never leaving my door unguarded._

“But what are you doing in here?” he asked, resisting the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. He knew that if he touched her he would not be able to let go. By the gods, he had nearly ravaged the woman on the parapets the previous day. Like some _beast._ And now she was sitting on his _bed._ Wearing a silk robe that covered her, but did nothing to disguise her womanly figure. Her hair was loose like it had been when he had barged into her chambers... 

He frowned, realising that Sansa was not doing anything he hadn’t done. _That was different,_ he told himself. That had not been in the middle of the night, and he had been concerned for her health.

“You are not the first man to desire me,” Sansa said in a low voice. She looked at him for a moment, her eyes shining in the gloom of his dark bedchamber. When she spoke again, her gaze slid away however, and it seemed to Stannis that she was looking at nothing at all. Or perhaps she was looking at her own past memories. “There have been many. Some ugly, some comely, some kind, some not.”

Stannis curled his hands into fists. He wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to hear what Sansa was telling him.

“Perhaps… in different circumstances… I might have desired some of them in return. I do not know. I never did, though. I never wanted any of them.” Sansa drew in a deep breath and looked straight at him. “But I do want you, Stannis. Very much.”

Before this moment, Stannis would have scoffed at the idea that a few simple words could cause such a violent, _involuntary_ physical reaction. He felt as if his body were suddenly flooded with heat, and the pressure in his groin grew so quickly that he actually let out a highly embarrassing gasp.

Sansa closed the distance between them and kissed him. It was a firm, decisive movement, but her lips were gentle and unassuming as they pressed against his own. Soft kisses, warm with little flicks of her tongue. Her lips were parted in invitation. She was enticing, not aggressive, and Stannis was… enticed.

He found himself pulling her down and lying half on top of her within moments, thrusting his tongue into her warm, welcoming mouth, and grinding his cock against her silk-covered thigh, silently cursing his smallclothes for existing.

 _She wants me,_ he thought, over and over, his heart pounding furiously.

“Why do you want me?” he asked between kisses, needing to know. Needing to hear _more._

“Because your kisses make me feel things I’ve never felt before,” Sansa whispered, moving to kiss the shell of his ear, his jaw, and his neck. “Because you see me for who I am. Because you danced with me and took me here to show me the most beautiful sunrises in Westeros. Because you made your daughter your heir, and because you do so much for the realm without expecting anyone to praise you for it.”

“It is my duty,” he said, his voice hoarse. He sought Sansa’s lips and kissed her once again, as deeply as he could. He wanted to taste every inch of her mouth.

“I am half Tully,” Sansa said when they had to come up for air, “I understand duty.”

Stannis closed his eyes and wondered if she was perhaps coming to her senses. Remembering that they had duties and responsibilities that should be stopping them. He had a duty to Selyse. Sansa had a duty to her future husband. Part of him hoped that she was. That she would stop them from doing this. A part of him hoped that she would say nothing and let them have this. Just once. He would not ask for more.

“But I am first and foremost a Stark. And winter is always coming. One must grab whatever happiness one can find while there’s still a chance.” She took a deep shuddering breath. “Life is more than duty, Stannis,” she finished, one of her hands trailing down his body. She cupped his cock through his smallclothes, making him groan.

They kissed again, and Stannis started to touch her in return, his heart racing as his hands came into contact with her silk-covered teats.

“Why do you want me?” she then asked, stroking him in a way that made him clench his buttocks and buck his hips.

Stannis retracted his hands. He wished Sansa would to the same, as he did not know how on earth he was supposed to come up with a coherent answer with her touching him like that. Thinking was becoming… difficult. “Because - because you told me that dancing with Shireen would be a kindness. Because you are Jon’s sister.”

Sansa pulled her hand away. “What?” Her voice was a little sharp.

Stannis realised he had said something that displeased her, but he wasn’t sure what it was. He took a deep breath and kept talking, hoping for the best. “He is your half brother, but you treat him the same way you treat Rickon. You support them both as a sister should. _Love_ them as a sister should.” Images of Robert and Renly appeared before his mind’s eye, and his heart contracted painfully. “And you’ve accepted Shireen as your sister, too.”

Sansa started touching him again, and she pressed a hot kiss to his lips. “I think I understand,” she said, her voice soft once more.

Relief and arousal coursed through him, and the urge to touch her, to feel every part of her with his hands, overpowered him. He began to tug at her robe, trying to expose her. She let go of his cock in favour of helping him.

She wore nothing underneath. Nothing.

He could see all of her. Long slender limbs, snow-white and almost… luminescent. The curves he had admired looked all the more alluring like this, full breasts, spread out flat due to the way she was lying on her back, nipples pebbled. The dip of her waist begged him to wrap his hands around it and see whether he could encircle her completely. The flare of her hips, and the dark thatch of auburn hair at the apex of her thighs made his mouth water.

For a moment Stannis choked on air instead of breathing it. He both wished there was more light and was grateful that there wasn’t. He wasn’t sure he could survive this.

“Touch me,” Sansa said. It was almost impossible to tell without more light, but Stannis got the sense that she was blushing. “Please.”

He swallowed and tried to decide what to do first. While he considered the matter, he discarded his own clothes. Fair was fair.

Sansa’s eyes widened a little once he was fully exposed, and lingered between his thighs. Though he was loath to tear his eyes from her, he glanced down at himself to make certain nothing appeared… unusual.

His body was as it had always been, though certainly not as thin with hunger as he had been during certain periods in his life. He was in good health, and strong. He had never been able to build his muscles to look the way Robert’s had in his youth - large and bulky to please giggling tavern wenches - but they did what he asked of them. It was his cock that worried him. Might it not be to Sansa’s liking? Had she expected something different? Bigger? He stared at it for a moment before looking back at Sansa’s face.

“You are well made, Your Grace,” she said. He was almost _certain_ that she was blushing.

_She approves._

“It’s Stannis,” he said, not caring to be granted his style at the moment, though he was not sure he had ever felt more like a king. He reached for one of her teats and squeezed it, trying to be as gentle as he could. She was even softer than she looked. “And you are beautiful,” he said, though he doubted he was telling her anything she had not heard before.

 _But perhaps she has never heard it while naked._ Stannis had been about to cover her with his body and start kissing her again, but the stray thought made him pause.

“Sansa,” he began, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “Have you done… this… before?”

She shook her head. “The Faith annulled my marriage to Tyrion Lannister. We never consummated our vows.”

 _She is a maiden, then._ A pang of guilt shot through him. And then the memories of his wedding filled his mind. The awkwardness. The pain. The blood. At the same time, a shameful little corner of his mind filled with greed. _I will be her first._

Sansa reached for his naked cock and wrapped her fingers around it. She was gentle, but he still let out a loud hiss and bucked his hips.

“I want you, Stannis,” she said, tugging on him and spreading her thighs. He had no choice but to follow along and settle himself between them. He groaned when she brought the head of his cock into contact with her folds.

 _It will be different with her,_ he told himself, pushing his old memories aside.

Her cunt was wet for him. Just like in his dreams.

_By the gods…_

Sansa moaned and steered his cock to slide up and down along her wet slit. He was hovering above her, looking at her face. Close enough to see the genuine pleasure in her expression. Close enough to see that she was closing her eyes like a cat in a ray of sunlight: out of enjoyment, and not for any other reason.

His breathing turned ragged, and he could not continue to hold himself back. The next time Sansa guided his cockhead towards her opening, he gave a small push, notching himself in place. He was not really properly _inside_ , but he knew that all he needed to do was thrust. Sansa made a surprised noise, but lifted her knees, spreading herself further.

“Sansa,” he managed to say through gritted teeth, “this will hurt.”

When she opened her eyes and looked at him, he did not avoid her gaze.

He reached down to help himself stay on the right course and gave a sharp thrust, lodging his cock halfway inside her. Sansa gasped, but did not close her eyes. He did not close his either, though his entire body was pulsing with pleasure and an impatient, greedy need for more. He needed to keep his wits about him. He needed to see if she changed her mind.

She nodded at him and shifted her hips invitingly. “Please.”

He nodded back, clenched his jaw even more tightly, and gave into his body’s need to sheathe himself completely. The bliss of it was so intense that he almost cried out -- almost let himself collapse on top of her so that he might be as close to her as possible, so that he might touch her with every inch of his skin. But he didn’t. He kept his eyes open and watched Sansa, trying to keep his pleasure from consuming him. A few tears escaped her eyes, but she barely made a noise. He kissed the salty tracks and then her lips, silently begging for her forgiveness though he did not deserve it.

Sansa’s hands went to his shoulders, squeezing him lightly. “It’s all right,” she said, her voice strained, “please… don’t stop.”

Stannis closed his eyes then, unable to face her as he gave in and started to move the way his body demanded. He did his best to keep his thrusts shallow and gentle, but it was much more challenging than he could ever have expected.

He had not lain with Selyse in _years,_ and the control he had learnt with her seemed inaccessible now. Utterly out of his grasp. Soon his hips were thrusting frantically, desperately, _obscenely._ His ears were filling with the lewd sounds of _fucking:_ wet smacks and embarrassing grunts, and he could do nothing but clench his buttocks and try to bite his tongue.

Guilt pooled in his stomach even as pleasure coiled at the base of his spine, and he kept his eyes tightly closed, trying to convince himself that the little noises Sansa sometimes made weren’t cries of pain. He was so focused on convincing himself of this, that he lost his rhythm completely when he felt Sansa run her hands down his spine, wrap her legs around his hips, and _moan._

His eyes flew open.

Sansa had thrown her head back, exposing her throat. Her lips were parted, and her eyes closed. Not squeezed shut in pain, just simply closed. There was a small furrow between her brows, but she was not grimacing. She looked like she was… concentrating.

“Is there… pain?” he choked out, trying to regain control of himself.

“There is,” Sansa said, opening her eyes and looking straight at him, “but it’s good, too. I like it. I like feeling you inside me.”

Stannis’ eyes nearly rolled into the back of his skull, and he hurriedly closed his lids. His hips were bucking wildly, trying to find a new rhythm, and he could tell that he would not be able to continue for much longer before he spilled his seed.

No amount of biting his tongue could keep his grunts of effort and pleasure from escaping him, and as he approached his peak, he lost all control of himself and started to gasp Sansa’s name.

Her hands were running up and down his back, her thighs were squeezing him, and she was moaning again.

“Stannis… _Stannis…_ ”

His sac, already tight, seemed to tighten even more, and then his seed spilled forth with a force that had him crying out so loudly that his voice broke in the middle of it. He felt so warm… so _right._ His hips bucked involuntarily a few times, as if his body wanted to make sure Sansa accepted every last drop of his seed, and a primal part of him revelled in the knowledge that Sansa was _his_ now. His like she had never belonged to any other man, and in a way she could never belong to anyone after him. _First,_ he thought. shivering. He felt flooded with bone-deep satisfaction: an all-encompassing bliss that he had tasted hints of before but never experienced fully. He wished he could stay in this moment forever, but much too soon his body was becoming as limp and weak as a newborn fawn. All he could do was roll off Sansa so he wouldn’t crush her, and then he just slumped, lying on his front, shuddering every now and then as he recalled the way Sansa had just been moaning his name.

They were silent for a long stretch of time.

“That was… unwise,” Stannis eventually said, the weight of his words slightly undermined by the pillow that muffled them. He imagined he looked about as impressive as sack of onions.

Sansa laughed. It was a beautiful sound. “Unwise but very enjoyable.”

The pool of guilt in his gut became a little less deep.

“You -” he turned heavily onto his side, not wishing to speak into a pillow any longer, “you enjoyed it?”

“As much as any lady enjoys her first time, I think,” Sansa said, turning to her side to face him.

They stared at each other. It had become a little less dark. Judging by the quality of the light, Stannis guessed that sunrise was perhaps an hour away. Sansa looked flushed and beautiful, her hair tangled and _everywhere,_ her body uncovered. But there were purple marks on her neck that gave Stannis pause. He reached for them, touching them gently. Had they been there before?

“What’s this?” he said, furrowing his brow.

“Your kisses on the parapets yesterday morning...” Sansa said, a small smile was playing on her lips. “They did not hurt me, but I’m afraid my skin bruises easily.”

“Did you maid ask questions?” Stannis asked, his stomach knotting up.

“Yes, but I indicated that one of the knights had kissed me quite passionately in an attempt to convince me to marry him,” Sansa said. “She was scandalised and wanted me to notify you so that you might have the knight punished. But I told her I had the situation well in hand.”

Though Stannis knew that there was no knight, he was briefly filled with an absurd urge to find out his name and exile him to the Wall. _And yourself? Will you exile yourself to the Wall?_ he then thought, scowling at himself. “We cannot be married,” Stannis muttered.

“Of course not,” Sansa said. “And we cannot afford any bastards, either.”

Her words should not have stung the way they did. He knew perfectly well that there could be no bastards. A bastard son might destabilise everything he had worked for. Everything he had tried to give Shireen. And Jon.

As a sharp stab of guilt pierced his innards, Stannis wondered whether Robert had ever felt any guilt over the bastards he had sired throughout the years. The boys that might have been his heirs if they had not been made on the wrong side of the blanket. And what of Sansa’s noble father? Had Ned Stark suffered turmoil when he had spilled his seed inside Jon’s mother? Had he spared his Tully wife a thought?

 _Bastard sons are always a threat to trueborn children. But bastard daughters… another daughter would not be unwelcome._ He could well remember what it had felt like to hold an infant child. A tiny creature of his own blood. _I should like to be a father again..._

Stannis crushed the thought. Sansa would not be carrying any child of his to term. She had her future to consider. A lady’s maidenhead could be said to have been lost to the saddle, but no woman with a bastard could pretend to be untouched.

“I will see to it that you are provided with tansy tea. Discreetly,” he said, feeling as if he were breathing shards of glass the whole time.

“Thank you,” Sansa said, kissing him lightly on the lips. When their eyes met, Stannis imagined that he saw his own sorrow reflected in hers.


	7. A Proposal

Escaping from Stannis’ chambers unseen was a matter of careful timing. Sansa had to hide beneath the covers when Stannis’ squire came in, asking whether Stannis needed his assistance. Stannis sent the boy away, dressed on his own - with only a little help from Sansa - and left to go about his day, his Kingsguard in tow.

Sansa had to wait until Stannis and the guard were gone, but she could not afford to wait for _too_ long, because she was sure there would be maids coming to straighten up Stannis’ chambers soon. She also needed to make it back to her rooms before anyone realised she was gone.

There was nothing she could do about the little bloodstain on Stannis’ bed linens except hope that he would be able to explain it away if anyone dared to question him.

Luckily, Sansa managed to leave unseen, visit the privy to clean herself up, and slip into her own chambers before her maid came along to help her dress. However, she did not manage to get into bed. Talia found her standing in the middle of her chambers, wearing nothing but a robe, her hair a rat’s nest, and her neck covered in fresh love bites.

“M’lady,” Talia said, her eyes becoming very large and round. “Did the knight you spoke of steal in here and use you ill?” Her eyes were filling with tears.

“Don’t be absurd, Shaggydog would never have allowed such a thing to happen. You know how well he guards both Rickon and me,” Sansa said. “I only had a nightmare. I’m afraid I tossed and turned so much that my hair has become hopelessly tangled.” She sighed dramatically. “Please help me put it to rights. I am meeting King Stannis on the parapets before sunrise.”

Talia curtseyed and went right to work without a word. Sansa knew there would no doubt be dreadful gossip among the servants about her and the knight she had invented, but there was always gossip among servants. It would not do any harm as long as there was no real proof.

While Talia untangled her hair, Sansa let her mind wander, trying not to blush at her recent memories.

She had not expected it to feel like it had felt. It had been so much more… _more._ The pain had felt more intense than she had expected, the strange feeling of being invaded - _penetrated_ \- more peculiar and foreign than she had ever been able to imagine -- even with everything that Petyr had told her. But that was just the physical aspect. What she had felt in her heart and in her mind had been _more,_ too. Feeling Stannis inside her, connecting with him in such an irreversible way, it had released a storm of emotions within her that she still could not make head nor tails of. Her stomach felt full of knots and butterflies both at once, and there was a pressure on her chest that made it hard to breathe. One minute her blood was running hot, the next she felt as if she would never be warm again: cold to the bone. Between her thighs there was a persistent, pulsing ache. It was not an ache of pleasure or of pain, though she had felt both when she had been with Stannis.

There had been more pleasure than Sansa had expected for her first time. Especially since Stannis wasn’t exactly a gentle lover. Not much about Stannis was gentle. Though she had made sure to prepare herself before she went to his chambers, she had not reached any sort of peak. The pleasure he had given her had not been the sort of pleasure she could give herself, but she felt as if she understood some of the things Petyr had tried to explain to her now. How it was possible for a woman to want to be taken hard and fast, and then harder and faster still.

She had not believed him, but now she could see that there had been truth in his words.

 _What would he say if he could speak to me now?_ she wondered, his smirking face flashing in her memory. 

She did not let the thought linger.

“The gown with the high collar again?” Talia asked when the time came to get dressed. Sansa nodded. Stannis already knew about the purple bruises that he had adorned her neck with, but Sansa needed to hide them from the rest of the world.

Meeting Stannis at the bottom of the stairs to the parapets felt utterly strange. Being forced to behave as if they had not been naked in bed together an hour ago was even stranger. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief when they made it out of the Kingsguard’s sight.

“Did anyone see you when you left my chambers?” Stannis asked, his body rigid with tension.

“No,” Sansa said, pleased to see Stannis relax a little.

“We can’t risk doing this again,” Stannis said, walking to the edge of the parapets and grasping the battlements tightly. “If we were to be discovered…”

“I understand the risks,” Sansa said, following Stannis and placing a hand on his shoulder. “There is much more at stake for me than there is for you.”

“Exactly!” Stannis exclaimed, whirling around to face her, his eyes burning. “There is too much at stake. We have been selfish, and short-sighted, and reckless… and for what?”

Sansa watched Stannis’ chest rise and fall too quickly, his nostrils flaring with every breath. She said nothing.

“For the pleasures of the flesh?” Stannis continued, disgust and shame in his voice. “It is not appropriate to risk so much for so little.”

Sansa took a step back, feeling very much as if she had just taken a punch to the stomach. “So little?” she repeated, her voice quavering. She looked out at the ocean and took a steadying breath. The water was grey today, just as the sky was. But there was an orange glow where the sun was just beginning its daily climb. 

“You consider my maidenhood to be a gift of no consequence?”

Stannis’ face fell. Sansa had never seen that happen. He was quick to scowl, however, and turned his gaze to the stone floor they stood upon. “No,” he said. “I do not.”

They said nothing for a while after that.

Eventually Sansa took a deep breath and touched Stannis’ arm to gain his attention. “I do not intend to follow you back to King’s Landing and become your mistress, Stannis.”

Somehow Stannis managed to look hurt, confused, and offended all at once.

“I will sail back to Winterfell with Rickon. In a few years I will marry a worthy lord of good standing. I will not wait for you.”

Stannis continued to regard her with furrowed brows and a surprisingly wounded look in his eyes.

Sansa straightened her back and lifted her chin. _I am a Stark of Winterfell, not some wilting rose._ “But I am willing to love you, here and now, for a little while. If you’ll love me in return.”

He blinked at her in disbelief, and for a very long time there was no sound except the sound of the ocean waves crashing against the shore, and the sea birds squalling as they flew past.

When it seemed that Stannis had simply forgotten how to speak, Sansa gestured at the sky. The orange glow had brightened, and everything was turning less grey. There was hope in the sea air, and Sansa wanted Stannis to see it. “Storm’s End is a place of hidden treasures,” she said, “it hides the most beautiful sunrises in Westeros.” _And it is where Just King Stannis hides his heart._ “Can’t you trust it to hide our secret, too?”

Stannis made a strangled noise and took a step towards her, grabbing her shoulders and staring into her eyes. “You expect me to be content with having you here, now, while we stay in Storm’s End, and then never again?”

His hands were squeezing her shoulders, but not hurting her. She took a breath and met his gaze without quailing. “It’s what I expect us both to be content with.”

“That’s - I can’t -” Stannis broke off, letting Sansa go and taking several steps away from her, rubbing his face with his hands.

Another deep breath. She had to be strong. This was the only way they could have what they wanted. This was the only way they could ever be together. It hurt to think that it wouldn’t be forever, and it hurt to think that it would have to be a secret, but it was the _only way._

“Tonight, at midnight, I will go to the guest chambers on the far eastern side of the topmost floor. Tell your Kingsguard that you are looking for a prized dagger your father used to own, and that you do not trust the servants with the task. Search a few different guest chambers before you enter the ones I will be waiting in. If your guard asks any questions when you emerge after spending the night with me, tell him you fell asleep.”

Stannis looked at her like he had never seen her before.

She gave him a smile. “If you do not come for me tonight, I will be waiting the night after. But if you leave me waiting twice, I will know that you truly do not wish to touch me ever again. I won’t give you a third opportunity.”

The way Stannis clenched his jaw at that gave Sansa more hope than any words he might have spoken. He did not seem to like the idea of never touching her again. Not in the _least._

“I’m going to go break my fast now,” she said, seeking the familiar comfort of her courtesies. “You are welcome to join me.”

Stannis cleared his throat. “I have training to do.”

“Very well,” she inclined her head. “Perhaps I will come and watch after I have eaten.”

Stannis appeared startled at that. “Watch?”

“Princess Shireen told me she often watched you train with Jon at Castle Black.”

He nodded. “She did.”

“Apparently it was quite interesting. I should like to see whether I agree with that assessment.”

Stannis stared at her for a long moment. Eventually he shrugged. “If it pleases you.”

***

Somehow Stannis managed to push all thoughts of Sansa and the secret meeting she had suggested out of his mind while he ran through his usual drills with his sword. His footwork was perhaps not at its best, but he _was_ sleep deprived.

But by the time Ser Gerald and the Storm’s End master-at-arms had joined him, Lord Stark following along with an eager look on his young face, Stannis was beginning to have trouble keeping his mind clear. 

_If you do not come for me tonight, I will be waiting the night after. But if you leave me waiting twice, I will know that you truly do not wish to touch me ever again._

Ser Gerald picked up a blunt blade and challenged him, however, so Stannis had no choice but to fall into a battle stance. The first one of them to yield would be the loser.

Gerald knew Stannis’ fighting style quite well, and Stannis usually enjoyed practising with the knight. He was not an easy opponent to defeat, and he never seemed to hold back despite the fact that Stannis was his king. Stannis was the one who landed the first blow today, and he might have followed it with another blow if it hadn’t been for the _applause._

The applause came from a balcony nearby, and Sansa was its source. She was watching him train as she had threatened to do, the sun catching prettily in her hair.

Stannis’s distraction cost him dearly. Ser Gerald got him under the ribs with the flat of his sword, causing him to gasp in pain.

“Are we here to look at comely ladies, or are we here to train, Your Grace?” Gerald asked, grinning. There was far too much amusement in his eyes.

Stannis glowered, re-adjusted his grip on his sword, and decided that Gerald would be a walking bruise by the time he was through with him.

It was strange to fight with Sansa’s eyes on him, after what they had shared. Knowing what they might still share. 

_I am willing to love you, here and now, for a little while. If you’ll love me in return._

As much as he wanted to focus on pummeling Gerald with his blunt sword until the man cried for mercy, Stannis kept getting tempted to glance up at the balcony to catch Sansa’s gaze, especially after he landed impressive blows and heard her applaud.

Meanwhile, Lord Stark had taken to cheering whenever Gerald managed to land a hit.

Stannis was sweating profusely after what felt like an eternity, and aching beneath his boiled leather. Proper armour would perhaps have served to protect him better, but it was cumbersome and Stannis liked to train without it on occasion to work on his speed. He and Ser Gerald had both lost their shields, and they would have to finish this soon.

When Gerald charged forward with both hands on the hilt of his sword, ready to aim a hard blow at Stannis’ shoulder, Stannis knew what to do. This was a move he had seen Gerald perform many times before, and he knew he would change directions at the last moment and either aim for his side or his knees.

 _Knees,_ Stannis guessed at the last moment, moving his sword to block the attack. He was right. Gerald’s sword clashed against his, but only for a moment. Stannis was quick to step back and then lunge, catching Gerald off guard and sweeping him off his feet. The knight ended up flat on his back with a loud grunt. Stannis took his sword and pointed both his own sword and Gerald’s at his head.

“Yield?”

“Aye, Your Grace, I yield,” Gerald said, though his eyes looked amused rather than dismayed.

Lord Stark groaned somewhere off to the side, but Sansa was applauding. Stannis allowed himself a look up at the balcony, his heartbeat quickening.

Sansa smiled at him, her eyes sparkling, and her entire face alive with youth and happiness. “Well done, Your Grace,” she said, smiling still more widely. “Most impressive.”

A smug, superior sort of feeling inflated his chest for a moment, and he wondered whether Lyanna Stark had ever applauded Robert’s skill and called him impressive. Certainly she had never given him her maidenhead.

The smug feeling disappeared almost as soon as it had arrived. _No. She had her maidenhead stolen by a prince. As you stole Sansa’s from her future husband._ Stannis busied himself with putting his practise sword away, and avoided Sansa’s eyes. Guilt was coursing through his veins, eating at him. It did not matter that Sansa had given it freely. He should not have accepted such a valuable gift.

 _But you are the king,_ a voice from a dark corner of his mind whispered. _Being the king used to come with certain privileges…_

Stannis shook the thought away, clenching his jaw. He was no savage king of old to partake in the tradition of the first night.

_I must not go to her tonight. I must not be weak again._

He would simply meet her on the parapets come tomorrow morning, and explain that what she had proposed - this secret affair she wanted to have while they stayed in Storm’s End - could not be.


	8. An Affair

“You didn’t come,” Sansa said, looking down at her hands rather than at Stannis or the ocean. They were on the parapets again, and a fresh dawn was fast approaching.

“No,” Stannis said flatly.

“Why not?” she asked, still examining her own fingers. She had not truly expected him to come to her at the first opportunity, but she needed to ask these questions. He would be suspicious if she did not. And if he became suspicious he would not come and find her _tonight_.

“Sansa…” He sighed. “What we did was… inappropriate.”

“We already had this conversation.” Sansa did not intent to go through it all again. “We both know it’s not ideal. If the world were as just as you are, we could be wed. We could have three sons and two daughters, and enjoy a long life of peace and prosperity.” 

Stannis closed his eyes, and Sansa could see his jaw working as if her words were causing him some immeasurable pain.

“What you suggested...” Stannis said, his eyes still closed, “...an affair that would end the moment we left Storm’s End… what would be the _point?_ ” He opened his eyes and glared at her with enough ferocity to make her take a step back.

“What is the point of coming here, to these parapets to watch the sunrise?” Sansa said at once, squaring her shoulders. “They are never the same, and you won’t be able to enjoy any single one of them again. Especially since you don’t intend to come here every morning for the rest of your life. Why come? Why watch?”

The deep furrows of Stannis’ brow disappeared for a moment. He opened his mouth to answer her, but no sound emerged.

“When you are given an opportunity to enjoy something beautiful and good, you take it. Even if you cannot spend the rest of your life enjoying it, even if you cannot claim it for your own and keep it always.”

“Storm’s End _is_ mine,” Stannis said, taking a step forward.

“And so am I. While we’re here.” Sansa decided to be bold and closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck and tilting her head back to observe him. “If it pleases you.”

Stannis made a noise that Sansa could not interpret. But she understood the way he wrapped his arms around her in return, and the way he looked at her. He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes burning. Finally he closed them. 

“It pleases me,” he whispered in a voice so low and strained that Sansa could hardly hear. 

He kissed her.

It was just as passionate as all his other kisses, but she noticed that he seemed to be trying to be more gentle. He moved his face more slowly against hers, as if taking care not to rub her raw. His passion was all concentrated into the movements of his lips and tongue, and she gladly met him stroke for stroke, doing her best to press her chest tightly against his.

It became their longest kiss yet, and when they finally parted, they parted sweetly, with several lingering little kisses to the corners of each other’s lips.

Sansa almost wanted to cry, but not of sadness or of joy. She couldn't explain it. Her heart just felt too heavy and big within her chest, and every breath she took hitched in her throat.

 _Perhaps I will leave my heart behind when I leave this place,_ she thought, her eyes burning with unshed tears. _Perhaps Storm’s End will be able to keep it safe along with the king’s._

***

Stannis could tell that Ser Simon suspected _something_ when he decided to go look for a long lost dagger, but he did not care. If he failed to find Sansa tonight he would never be allowed to touch her again, and it was an unbearable notion. Almost as unbearable as knowing that he would eventually have to let her go. That he would not be able to keep her with him for the rest of his days and have children with her. That he would one day have to watch and do nothing as some lord - _not Tyrell_ \- claimed her and had his heirs with her.

“Your Grace?” Simon said, interrupting his thoughts.

Stannis realised he had been standing still with his hands curled into fists and his teeth grinding together for a good long while. At least judging by the ache in his jaw. “What?”

“Were you still searching for that dagger? Or do you wish to return to your chambers? It’s getting quite late, my king.”

“I’m going to keep searching,” Stannis said, his voice clipped. 

It was time to go to the chambers where Sansa would be waiting.

As he walked towards the door, he wondered whether Sansa might have changed her mind. Whether she might have decided that because he hadn’t gone to her last night, he did not deserve this second chance.

 _She promised,_ he reminded himself, his nails digging into his palms. And the kiss they had shared on the parapets had felt like another promise.

“Wait out here,” Stannis ordered as he worked up the courage to open the door. _She’ll be there. She will._

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Stannis took a deep breath and pulled on the handle. He hurried inside and closed the door behind him, worried that Simon might otherwise catch a glimpse of what it concealed.

He need not have worried. There was nothing to see. It was dark and gloomy and… empty? His heart constricted.

“You came,” Sansa’s voice said, making it easy to breathe again.

He turned his head towards the sound and found Sansa sitting in a shadowy corner. It became less shadowy when she lit the lamp beside her.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to do without a fire,” Sansa said, casting a mournful look at the empty hearth. “It would have caused suspicion if I had asked one of the servants to light one in here.”

“I’m perfectly capable of lighting a fire,” Stannis said, walking towards the basket of logs that stood beside the hearth. He felt both impatient with the task and relieved to have something to do with his hands.

“Thank you,” Sansa said, rising from her seat and watching with undisguised interest as he got to his knees and started to pile logs in a suitable way. She made a little happy noise when he managed to create a spark and fan the flames so they took hold of the fuel.

“There,” he said as he got to his feet and brushed the soot off his hands. His heart was beating too fast, and it was all Sansa’s fault for looking at him as if he had just defeated the Night’s King right in front of her. _Honestly, it’s just a fire._

“Now we’ll be warm,” she said, walking right up to him and kissing his cheek.

“It’s summer,” he said, catching her before she managed to step back. “We would hardly have frozen to death without the fire.” He held her in place and looked into her eyes. For a moment they both stared, and Stannis found that he was holding his breath. But then she melted against him, clearly more than content to let him hold her. “Presumably,” he added, his voice coming out in that strange hoarse whisper that her presence seemed to call forth.

They kissed.

The more Stannis kissed Sansa, the more he came to realise why people liked it so much. Stannis had never really understood the _point_ of kissing before. Robert had always gone on about how it put women in the mood to fuck, but Robert had said that about dancing and drinking wine, too. And, of course going to tourneys to watch men like Robert swing swords and warhammers, and prance around with lances made women want to fuck. According to Robert, a lot of things put women in the mood to fuck. Stannis had always been sceptical of his claims. But perhaps Robert had not been wrong about kissing.

Kissing Sansa certainly put Stannis in the mood to -

“Should we move to the bed?” Sansa asked, breathless and warm in his arms.

He nodded and felt his throat dry up and his heart beat faster when he realised he would have to help Sansa disrobe. When she had visited his chambers she had barely worn anything. Now she was fully dressed in the high-collared gown she had taken to wearing these past days. He would very much like to take it off her.

They took the few steps they needed to take to get to the bed, but did not lie down. Stannis was already fumbling with the laces of Sansa’s gown, and the job became much easier when they stopped moving and Sansa turned around and pulled her plaited hair out of the way.

Still, his hands trembled.

Exposing first Sansa’s shift, then her stockings and her smallclothes, and finally her naked body in all its glory, was an _experience._ He felt an odd jumpy, fluttery sensation in the pit of his stomach that he had not felt since he had been a young boy on his nameday, unwrapping gifts from his lord father and lady mother.

 _The comparison is apt,_ he thought vaguely as he let his fingertips drift over her stiff nipples. _Every part of her is a gift. And I was the first to unwrap her._ He shivered.

“That feels lovely,” Sansa whispered when Stannis gave into his urge to touch her nipples again.

He looked at her and swallowed. He wanted to kiss her teats. Would she allow something so odd?

 _We are not trying to make an heir,_ Stannis reminded himself. _This is not about duty._ Why shouldn’t he kiss her teats?

He did it before he could talk himself out of it, and was pleased when Sansa responded with a throaty moan. That is, he was pleased until he remembered Ser Simon outside the door. _What if he hears us?_

“Please do that again,” Sansa begged, thrusting her chest towards his mouth.

The guard now utterly forgotten, Stannis kissed Sansa’s nipples eagerly, even going so far as to lick and suck at them the way he would her lips. Her answering noises of pleasure shot straight to his groin, hardening him to an extent he would not have considered possible a few days ago.

With Selyse it had often taken him an embarrassing amount of time to persuade his cock to harden.

_Don’t think about Selyse._

Sansa seemed excited by the development below his belt. She was cupping him through his breeches and tugging ineffectually at his laces.

Stannis decided that he’d had enough of his clothes, and disrobed as quickly as he possibly could, feeling his face redden slightly when Sansa watched him with naked interest the whole time. Due to the fire he had started there was a lot more light in this chamber than there had been in his own rooms, and Sansa would be able to see every unsightly scar, every grey hair, every flaw.

“All that training,” Sansa said, sitting on the bed now and still _staring._ “I hope my future husband will be as diligent…”

His heart thumped uncomfortably in his chest and his face burned more fiercely.

Stannis decided that this discomfited reaction was only due to Sansa’s mention of her future husband, and quickly got rid of his smallclothes and pushed Sansa until she was lying down on the centre of the bed with himself on top of her. She spread her legs for him, and Stannis soon forgot his discomfort. She was warm and wet at her core, and his cock was so achingly hard and ready.

But when he reached down and started trying to notch the head of his cock in the right place, Sansa stopped him.

“I could use a little more preparing,” she said, her voice gentle.

He blinked down at her. “You feel wet to me,” he said, unable to think of anything else she might mean.

“Please,” Sansa said, her hand shooing his own away from his cock and taking control of him. She started doing what she had done last time, letting his cock slide up and down along her slit. It had been maddeningly good then, and it was much more maddening now that he knew how much better it would be to get inside her.

Strangely she did not focus on putting his cock anywhere near her entrance. She kept lingering near the top of her slit, just below the place where her patch of red curls grew. She rubbed his cock there, sometime back and forth, sometimes in circles, moaning and whimpering and moving her hips to create even more friction.

“Are you prepared enough now?” he asked after a little while of this torture, his voice strangled.

Sansa’s cheeks were flushed a deep pink. She nodded and let go of his shaft. He was quick to grab hold instead and guide himself lower. _There._ The head slipped inside more easily than last time, and he groaned at the heat of her.

Sansa shifted around underneath him and lifted her knees a bit more, giving him better access. Her movements made him slide forward, and his hips bucked involuntarily.

“Oh,” Sansa gasped, clutching his arms.

“All right?” he asked, forcing himself not to thrust himself the rest of the way inside.

“It’s _good_ ,” she said, sounding almost surprised.

Not sure whether to be offended at her surprised tone, Stannis continued to keep still. “Do you want - ah -”

“Yes... _please_.”

With a groan, he thrust himself the rest of the way in. It took a few determined movements since she was still quite tight, but she seemed to enjoy it, judging by the little gasps she let out.

“ _Gods,_ Stannis…” she breathed when he was finally all the way in, the tone of her voice causing something in his brain to melt and leak all the way down his spine like raw egg. He shuddered and his cock twitched.

“Still good?” he asked, swallowing a few times and trying to suppress the urge to start thrusting wildly.

She moaned, her nails digging into his back and then raking down to his buttocks. She squeezed him there, seemingly to invite him even deeper. But deeper was not possible, so he decided to interpret her fondling as an invitation to start moving.

His eyes closed and his mouth dropped open when he started to thrust, finding a quick, needy rhythm. He just couldn’t convince his jaw to close and soon he was panting, though he managed not to stick his tongue out like a dog. Sansa made highly arousing sounds of pleasure each time he filled her, and she actually squealed with delight when he - in an attempt to please her further - got properly on his knees and started to put his back into it, lengthening his strokes and causing their bodies to meet with loud smacking noises.

They kissed intermittently, when he needed to adjust his position or have a bit of a break, and he experimented with thrusting his tongue into her mouth and his cock into her sheath in unison.

He wanted to be inside her in every possible way.

Well, perhaps not _every_ possible way. But every way that she would accept him, certainly.

His climax came upon him all at once, his sac tightening up and his entire body twitching with the violent release. A strangled moan left his throat without his permission, and later Stannis wondered why he even tried to hold himself back when it came to these noises. They seemed to escape no matter what he did, and Sansa did not appear to mind. He allowed himself a brief moment of respite on top of Sansa, enjoying the way her body felt pressed against every inch of his own, before rolling off to lie on his back next to her.

In a minute he would ask how she was feeling and show her the concern she was due. But first he needed to rest his eyes. Just a little.


	9. The King's Mistress

Sansa did not think Stannis would miss her while she left the bed and went over to the little water basin she had brought with her and cleaned herself up. 

After her first time with Stannis she had been surprised by the _mess._ It was not the blood that was the worst of it - there had only been a little blood - but the seed seemed to come in frankly absurd quantities. And it was strangely viscous and sticky and _messy._ Petyr had warned her that it would not all stay inside neatly, and had seemed to take delight in her look of horror when he had gone on to explain that some women liked lapping it up from the source, and that some men liked to… finish… on a woman’s body - on her belly, her breasts, her behind, or even her face - and make an even bigger mess. He’d said that such practises were popular as they could prevent a woman from growing large with child, but also because it was pleasurable and arousing.

Sansa was not sure she would find it very arousing. Cleaning herself between her thighs was certainly her least favourite part of the whole process. She much preferred the part where Stannis kissed her and let her use his manhood to pleasure herself the way she would pleasure herself with her hands. It was much nicer to use a nice blunt implement than it was to use her fingers. With her fingers she needed to be so very _careful,_ while Stannis’ manhood simply seemed designed to please that part of her. As long as everything was appropriately wet and slippery.

And she definitely liked having him inside.

It had hardly hurt at all this time, and it had been fascinating to see the way Stannis’ expression changed when he had sheathed himself completely and started to move. It was an odd open-mouthed expression that might have made her laugh in any other situation, but she had not found it comical. It had brought her pleasure to see him so unguarded, to see the jaw he spent so much time clenching tightly shut hanging open and relaxed.

Besides, she was sure her own expression had been decidedly silly when he had started to thrust inside her with those powerful long strokes. It had felt… indescribable. The pleasure of it had been tempered by a slight burning sensation as her inner muscles had protested against being stretched like that, but overall it had been like nothing she had ever felt. Not even their first time together could have prepared her for the way he could make her body twitch and shudder every time he filled her.

Realising that she had stopped cleaning herself and started to press the wet cloth tightly between her thighs, halfway to pleasuring herself, she hurriedly finished the job she had set out to do and returned to the bed. Stannis was still dead to the world, his chest rising and falling slowly. Occasionally he snored softly.

She watched him for a little while, wondering whether she should try to sleep, too. She did not feel the least bit tired, however, so she decided to clean him up a bit, too. Maybe her touch would wake him up and then they’d be able to kiss a little more?

His manhood looked very different when Stannis was not aroused. Much smaller and less impressive, and rather wrinkly. Sansa thought it had to be because the skin wasn’t stretched out like it was when he became engorged and hard, but it still seemed a little amusing. She cleaned him thoroughly, smiling to herself at how different it felt to handle him like this, and discovering the hard little balls hidden inside his sac. It was entertaining to roll them around, and she did not even mind the coarse black hair that got in her way.

He had been clean for several minutes, and the washcloth lay forgotten, and yet Sansa was still touching him. She was thrilled that she finally had the chance to discover everything there was to discover about this hidden part of a man’s body, and determined to learn everything she could while no one was stopping her.

Eventually she could see his manhood change in front of her eyes. The wrinkly skin stretched out and became smooth, and he grew several sizes. He grew so much that it hardly seemed like it should be _possible_. Sansa wondered how it was that it could happen.

“Sansa...?” Stannis’ voice was raspy with sleep.

Sansa snatched her hand back and tried to keep herself from looking guilty. “Oh, you’re awake,” she said, trying to sound calm and relaxed. She smiled at him.

He grunted and Sansa saw his manhood twitch, moving as if it had a mind of its own. “Of course I’m awake,” he said, his tone grumpy, “you woke me with your incessant fondling.”

She felt her cheeks flood with heat. “I only meant to clean you up a little.”

Stannis made a sceptical noise.

Deciding to push her embarrassment aside and make the most of the fact that Stannis was awake again, Sansa wrapped her hand around the shaft of his manhood. “Is this how you like being touched?”

The grouchy expression on Stannis’ face disappeared. She saw his throat work as he swallowed. “No need to be so gentle,” he said, his face reddening. “But don’t squeeze too hard.”

Sansa adjusted her grip, trying to make it firmer. “Like this?”

“Yes, better,” Stannis said, his breathing coming out a little quicker.

“What else do you like?” she asked, watching him swallow a few more times.

Instead of answering her, Stannis wrapped a hand around hers and started to guide her, showing her how to slide the loose skin of his manhood up and down the hard shaft to continuously expose and then hide the bulbous tip. A familiar musky smell reached Sansa’s nose, and she saw a clear droplet of liquid seep from the slit at the tip.

“Ah - you can use your thumb to spread it out,” Stannis said, clearing his throat.

Sansa did as he suggested, and enjoyed the low noise of pleasure Stannis made.

After a while, Stannis released Sansa’s hand and let her do as she wished. She enjoyed it, but soon her own arousal began to distract her. At first she tried to ignore it, then she pressed her thighs together tightly for some relief, and in the end she was squirming in a very undignified way.

“Are you well?” Stannis asked, noticing her movements. His eyes were glazed over as he looked at her, but there was concern in them.

“I need you to touch me,” she said, deciding that it was time for them to switch roles. Her face felt very hot, but she didn’t care. She needed this.

Stannis blinked at her for a moment, but soon his expression became determined. “Show me,” he said, his voice hoarse and low in that way it sometimes got. It made her want to squirm some more.

They shifted around until Sansa was on her back with her thighs spread, Stannis on his side close to her. She placed his hand where she needed it, and guided his fingertips to the right place and then withdrew her hand.

“I’m a little sensitive from before,” she whispered, “I need gentle touches.”

Stannis began to move, and Sansa winced almost at once. “Gentler than that,” she admonished.

“Show me,” Stannis asked again.

It felt strange and heady to take the hand of a king and move it in a way that pleased her, but Stannis had asked it of her, and did not seem to mind being controlled in this way.

“Can you even feel that?” Stannis asked after a while, sounding bemused. “It seems to me I’m barely touching you.”

Sansa was fast approaching a peak, the combination of his bigger fingers and the general situation making her body thrum with excitement and arousal. “Believe me, I feel it,” she breathed. “Steady like that - yes - circles - _oh…_ ”

She let go of his hand and grabbed the nearby blankets, squeezing them hard and panting. Stannis could follow instructions, and was doing exactly what she had asked. His fingers were actually much better than her own at keeping a steady, relentless pace. She tended to give into the need to go faster sooner than she should, which brought her to completion more quickly, but weakened her peak. With Stannis in control of moving his own hand she could focus on the coiling, building sensation within her, the tendrils of heat creeping through her, and the wet, empty ache inside her. Soon she was shuddering and bucking up, moaning involuntarily and trying to rub herself harder and faster against Stannis’ hand.

Drunk on the intoxicating sensations coursing through her, Sansa decided that she wanted to know what it would be like to feel this pleasure and to be _full,_ too.

It was easier than she could have imagined. Stannis allowed her to push him onto his back and straddle him, his eyes wide and his eyebrows raised, but no complaints on his lips.

Sinking down on his manhood from this position was… odd. Not entirely comfortable. Her insides still weren’t used to being stretched open so rudely, and it burned. But once she was fully seated, the burning sensation faded to a dull throb, and the satisfaction of being full consumed her. She sat still for a little while, just breathing and trying to let her body adjust to being invaded once again.

“Good?” Stannis choked out, his hands going to her hips and grasping her tightly.

She opened her eyes and looked down at him, noticing the tense way he was holding himself taut. His jaw was clenched shut, and his muscles were almost… vibrating.

“I - I’m not sure,” Sansa said, shifting around and trying to find the best angle. When she moved she saw Stannis squeeze his eyes shut and make a noise she was not sure was of pain or pleasure.

Eventually she found that spreading her thighs as much as she could and leaning forward until her breasts were practically flush against Stannis’ chest seemed to feel the best. Once she discovered this, she started to move.

Stannis blew out a loud relieved breath and tightened his hold on her. After a few false starts he managed to match her rhythm, and soon they were rocking together seamlessly, skin sticking together due to their sweat, and their grinding movements causing Sansa to feel jolts of pleasure that made her clench up strangely. 

Soon she was too wrapped up in her pleasure to feel the discomfort that had bothered her at first, or perhaps her body was just getting used to all this. In any case, she was able to sit up, and with Stannis’ assistance, she followed her body’s desire for more friction and faster movements, and started to grind herself back and forth in a way that was utterly frenzied.

“Oh, gods…” The strange sensation of her inner muscles clenching up became more powerful, and with it came the more familiar heat of her impending peak. “Stannis - I’m… it’s so good…”

Her peak hit her more powerfully than it had when Stannis had been using his fingers, flooding her with warmth and making her shudder and cry out incoherently. Hazily she was aware of Stannis groaning and bucking up, almost like an untamed horse trying to throw a rider. But unlike a horse, he was holding onto her, keeping her firmly in place.

It it hadn’t been for the sweat and the musky smells and the wet noises, Sansa might have thought it was all a dream. But it was frighteningly real and physical and strange.

When he stopped moving, only twitching a little every now and then, Sansa wondered if she should get off and lie down next to him. She was definitely feeling sore now that the high of her peak had left her, but she also felt sluggish and lazy. It seemed easier to just stay where she was, even though she was throbbing on the inside, and even though it felt highly odd to experience the way Stannis was softening within her.

Eventually Stannis had to practically push her off, though he was gentle about it. To Sansa’s dismay, it turned out that coupling in this position was even messier than lying beneath Stannis as she had done before.

“Is there always so much of it?” she asked, wrinkling her nose and trying to lie in a way that did not encourage more sticky seed to leak out of her. It did not seem to matter what she did, and there was even a _very_ embarrassing noise at once point, which she could do nothing to control. Thankfully Stannis did not seem to care, but Sansa blushed violently anyway.

“Not always,” Stannis said, looking down at himself and furrowing his brow. “But most of the time, yes.”

She sighed. _At least I came prepared._ She would not have wanted to do without some water and a washcloth.

After the tedious process of cleaning up, Sansa cuddled up to Stannis without asking his leave. She wanted to be close to him, and she wanted to rest. She smiled when Stannis did not protest, and simply wrapped an arm around her, embracing her.

“I liked that,” she said after a little while, shifting to try to alleviate the throbbing sensation that was still causing her some discomfort.

“I noticed,” Stannis said dryly. “And unless Ser Simon is quite deaf, I’m afraid he must have noticed, too.”

Sansa threw one leg over one of Stannis’ thighs and pressed herself close. It eased her discomfort considerably. “He doesn’t know I’m the one who’s in here,” she said, though she could not help but feel a little mortified at the idea of being overheard. “For all he knows, you found a willing chambermaid.”

“I have not made it my habit to fuck chambermaids,” Stannis muttered, his grouchy tone of voice at odds with the gentle way he was holding her.

His crude turn of phrase sent a little thrill through her. “No, only your mistress,” she said, feeling another thrill. _That is what I am for now: the king’s secret mistress._

“You’re more than that, Sansa,” Stannis said, facing her and looking at her with an expression that was so serious that Sansa almost forgot to breathe. “I love you.” He tightened his hold on her protectively, enveloping her in his warmth and his strength.

Her heart stuttered and she closed her eyes for a moment, unable to bear his intense gaze. “I love you, too,” she whispered.

She kept her eyes closed for a long time, knowing that if she opened them, she would cry.


	10. Learning

Stannis had perhaps managed to sleep for three consecutive hours when Sansa started shaking him awake.

The fire in the hearth had burnt down to embers, and it was cold wherever Stannis was not covered by the blankets or Sansa’s body. When he opened his eyes, it was almost too dark to see.

“You must go back to your chambers. I can’t leave while your guard is still outside,” Sansa said, shaking him some more.

Groggily, Stannis nodded as he rubbed the sand from his eyes. “Will you meet me on the parapets later?” he asked, stifling a yawn.

“Of course. We must not change our routine.”

He dressed as quickly as he could, though his body was misbehaving and it was hard to find his things in the dark. He felt sluggish, and his knees were a little weak. He wobbled around a few times before he got himself under control, and Sansa giggled at his expense. He threw her a halfhearted glare.

“I’ll see you in a little while,” Sansa said once he had kissed her farewell, his stomach swooping as he did it.

“Yes,” he said, swallowing the urge to say more, to kiss her again, to crawl back into bed and hold her close and never let go. But Stannis did not crawl back into bed. He left the guest chambers, closing the door carefully behind him.

“Your Grace,” Ser Simon said, straightening his back. There were dark half-moons under his eyes and his voice was hoarse.

Stannis said nothing, but started to make his way down the corridor.

Simon followed. “Did you find the dagger?”

For a moment Stannis was confused. _What dagger?_ But then he remembered the lie. “No,” he said, and lengthened his stride, trying to outrun his embarrassment.

“Sounded like you might have found a sheath, though,” Simon said, his tone innocent.

Stannis’ embarrassment intensified and he clench his jaw shut, forcing himself not to say anything. Instead he just tried to walk even faster, until Simon was half walking, half running to keep up.

Unfortunately, Simon was not the last man to make such innocent comments that day.

After spending a very enjoyable hour with Sansa on the parapets, holding her in his arms, kissing her, and watching the sunrise in a peaceful, companionable silence, it was time to join Ser Gerald, young Lord Stark, the master-at-arms, and several knights and men-at-arms who were already awake for archery practise. 

“Sleep well?” Ser Gerald asked with a smirk when Stannis had managed to miss the bull’s eye of his target for the third time in a row.

Stannis answered with an irritated grunt, and handed the bow he had been using to his squire. “This bow is deficient. Find me another one.”

“One can’t blame the equipment when one has trouble performing, Your Grace,” tutted Gerald. “A good archer can hit the target with any old bow, so long as he knows how to use it.” He grinned and let loose an arrow, hitting the very centre of the bull’s eye.

Stannis’ squire returned with a different bow. He snatched it from the boy and glared at Gerald while he selected an arrow.

He hit the circle nearest the bull’s eye this time, which was not bad, but not to his usual standard.

Gerald tilted his head to the side. “Perhaps it’s the target that’s putting you off? Perhaps you would perform better if you were aiming for a more… desirable target?”

Stannis furrowed his brow at Gerald, and wondered whether the castellan had gone quite mad. There was no such thing as a _desirable_ target.

Gerald was looking up towards one of the balconies, however, and did not seem to notice Stannis’ concern for his mental health. Stannis followed his eyes and saw that Sansa had appeared. She smiled at him, and his heart leapt. Quickly, as to not betray his feelings, he looked away from her.

Gerald was grinning at him now. “Many men say that one target is as good as another, but sometimes my bow just wants to shoot arrows at a particular one, and no other will satisfy me… no matter how hard I try to make do.”

Stannis stared at him. It was obvious that Gerald was not actually talking about bows, arrows, and targets.

 _He thinks I fucked some chambermaid to try to get over my desire for Sansa,_ he realised, squeezing his bow a little too tightly. He supposed it was good that the gossips of the castle had not realised what precisely was going on, but he did not like that Gerald had already found out about Stannis’ midnight adventure.

Perhaps it was time to put a few of Storm’s End secret passageways back into use.

“If I wanted to hear brothel talk, I’d be visiting one,” Stannis snapped, and got ready to fire another arrow. “Now make yourself useful and go help Lord Stark. He’s trying to hit a target that’s much too far away.”

When Gerald was suitably distracted, Stannis risked another look up at Sansa’s balcony. She gave him an encouraging nod, her eyes sparkling in the morning light.

Stannis’ next arrow found the dead centre of its target.

***

Stannis could remember what his life had been like before his affair with Sansa had started. He could remember the ups and down of it with absolute accuracy. But that did not change the fact that life before Sansa seemed unreal now. Less-than. Unremarkable. Only his love for his daughter felt as vivid -- as _true._

Bedding with Selyse had never brought him much joy. He had always understood the need to do it - the need to create an heir - but beyond the relief of his climax brought him, he had never derived much pleasure from it. Now he felt the way he had felt as callow youth, just discovering the shameful pleasure his own hand could give him. Except his trysts with Sansa were a thousand times better. (And, as a guilty part of him would insist on reminding him, a thousand times more shameful.)

They met every night in secret, making use of certain passageways that - judging by the state of them - had not been in use since Stannis was a child, constantly looking for places to hide from Robert. There was one particular passage that could be entered from three separate locations, one of which was inside his own chambers. He told Sansa how to find the other two entrances, and thus she was able to come to him nightly, and leave before dawn, without ever raising suspicions.

Sansa was eager to touch him in ways Stannis would never have expected Selyse to touch him, and she was even more eager to allow him to touch her in turn. She _liked_ his perverse desire to fondle and kiss her teats, and indeed encouraged him to kiss her wherever he wished. All she wanted in return was leave to do the same to him, which he granted without a second thought.

Stannis had never felt lips on his chest before, his abdomen, his back, his arms, his calves, thighs, and on the backs of his knees. His palms had never been kissed. The very idea of it had never even occurred to him. But Sansa mapped his entire body with her mouth, just as he mapped hers.

She loved it when he kissed her palms and her wrists, and she moaned with pleasure when he lavished the insides of her thighs with open-mouthed kisses as he was doing now. She was almost as loud as she sometimes got when he touched that spot she liked, right at the top of her slit, and it made him wonder whether there wasn’t one more place he might try kissing. It was no more indecent or perverse than anything else he had done with her. He might as well.

“Stannis!” she gasped the moment he moved his mouth to kiss her _there._

He pulled back immediately. “Not good?” he asked, searching her face, his stomach in knots. Had he overstepped? Had he finally gone too far?

Sansa shook her head. “No, it’s good… I just. Are you sure you want to?”

He frowned at her. “Of course I’m sure. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done it.”

A startled laugh escaped her, but it she went quiet almost as soon as she started. “All right then.” She looked pleased. Shy, but pleased.

Stannis returned to his previous position and started kissing her inner thighs again, liking the breathy sighs his kisses elicited from her. Slowly, he moved higher until he was kissing her folds, and then again that spot she liked him to touch.

She moaned and spread her thighs wider, encouraging him wordlessly.

He took a deep breath, inhaling her musky scent, and experimented with wetter kisses. She tasted a little sour on his tongue, but it was not an entirely unpleasant flavour, and it was not very strong. Mostly she tasted of clean skin. Feeling bold and curious, he dipped his thrust his tongue into her cunt the way he might thrust it into her mouth, wanting to see if the flavour was stronger there. It was. _Interesting._ He licked his way back up.

“Stannis - what - oh, _oh_ ….”

Sansa seemed to like the licking. Aroused by the sound of her pleasure, Stannis kept going, eager to inspire more cries.

Soon Sansa was becoming _very_ loud. And all he was doing was try to do with his tongue what she had patiently taught him to do with his fingers. Steady movements. Always the same without stopping. It was more tiring to do it with his tongue than with his fingers, and it was certainly more awkward to maintain the position he was in - his neck hurt - but she had never been this loud before and his cock was close to bursting because of it.

“Inside me,” she begged after he had made her _squeal._ “Please, Stannis, I need you inside me, _now._ ”

He scrambled up her body in a rush, but apparently he was not moving fast enough. Sansa’s nails scratched at his back, and she pulled him to her with her thighs, forcing him to fall on top of her with an undignified ‘oomph’. She grabbed at his cock to line it up, and then used every limb at her disposal to _slam_ him inside.

“Hard,” she moaned, “ _fast._ ”

Aroused beyond all reason, Stannis could think of nothing but complying. She was decadently wet, and his powerful thrusts seemed to bring her nothing but pleasure. Her inner muscles gripped him more comfortably now than they had those first few times when she had been tight enough to drive him to madness, and it made it easier for him to establish a confident rhythm. It was also easier for him to feel it when she peaked. It didn’t always happen, and usually she needed to be on top, but when it did it was nearly always enough to force him to climax, too. When she peaked she would first flutter and massage his cock, then _squeeze_ him, and finally clench up like a vice, milking him for everything he had to give.

Eager to get her there, Stannis sought more leverage. Somehow he ended up on his knees, holding onto her ankles, ramming himself inside her with a force that he would never have thought to attempt without her very vocal encouragement. He was sweating profusely with the effort, and breathing loudly when he wasn’t groaning or grunting or making some other embarrassing noise. But none of that mattered when he felt the first flutters and heard Sansa’s voice go up in pitch. His sac tightened up and his jaw slackened, and he lost all control of his thrusts. The wet smacks of their bodies being slammed together came so fast that there hardly seemed to be a quiet moment in between them. Sansa clenched up and nearly screamed, clawing him where her hands could reach, and Stannis cried out in his turn as he exploded, planting his seed deep within her.

For a few seconds he could not help himself. He hoped with all his heart and his soul that his seed would take root. He hoped for a child.

Then he returned to his senses and recalled that there could be no child. _No bastard._

Stannis swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and rolled to the side, leaving Sansa’s warmth behind.

But Sansa followed him, cuddling close. “I love you,” she whispered, sounding satisfied and at peace.

The ache in his heart eased to a dull throb. _This is a sunrise,_ he reminded himself. _Enjoy it and be content._


	11. Gifts

“Fair is fair,” Sansa said, willing Stannis to be quiet and let her try this. “I let you do it last night.”

“That was different,” Stannis said, his face lobster red.

Sansa raised a brow. “How was it different?” She kissed the top of his thigh again, and continued to stroke his manhood the way he liked.

He furrowed his brow and frowned, clearly unable to come up with an answer. “It just is.”

“I’ll stop if it’s not to your liking,” Sansa said, pouting like she hadn’t done since she was ten years old.

“But… my seed,” Stannis said, looking uncertain. “What if -”

“It won’t cause me any harm if I get some in my mouth. This is a common enough practise in brothels.”

Stannis shifted around on the bed in agitation. “Precisely! In _brothels._ You are not a whore, Sansa. I will not let you debase yourself this way.”

“Please?” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Just once?” She gave the head of his manhood a quick kiss.

Stannis closed his eyes and groaned. Sansa watched with interest as his manhood jumped. It was clear to her that even though Stannis was trying his best to be outraged, there was a part of him that was quite eager to try what she was suggesting.

“I - I suppose,” his voice cracked. “Just once…”

She was quick to act now that his permission had been granted -- just in case he changed his mind. She tightened her grip on his shaft and brought her lips to the tip, kissing him again. She lingered this time, kissing this part of him like she had kissed so many other parts of his body: lovingly. He was sticky with the clear liquid that tended to seep from the slit on the head of his manhood during their pillow play, and her tongue darted out to taste it. It was a nondescript sort of salty flavour that Sansa decided she neither liked nor disliked. Would his seed taste the same?

Sannis made a noise that was curiously close to a whimper when she licked him, so Sansa did it again. And again.

Soon she realised that if she stroked him the way he had taught her and licked him at the same time, she could make him moan and buck his hips impatiently. She liked that.

“Inside,” he begged after a while, “let me…” He broke off, panting.

Sansa was not quite ready to stop exploring, even though she was dripping wet and keen to let Stannis inside. But she did not want to disappoint her lover.

Curious, she decided to see how much of him she could fit inside her _mouth_.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Sansa hurriedly opened her mouth wide and let Stannis’ manhood back out. “Did it hurt?” she asked, unsure whether Stannis’ exclamation had been good or bad.

“No,” Stannis said quickly, a hint of desperation in his voice.

 _He liked it, then,_ Sansa thought, feeling pleased with herself. She enveloped him with her lips again and tried to take him as far inside as she could. It was perhaps half his length. She almost gagged when she tried to take more.

“Ah - careful,” Stannis said, panting loudly.

She let him go and gave him a curious look.

“Your teeth,” he said, looking embarrassed. “They’re sharp.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

He cleared his throat and swallowed. “If you want to.”

 _That’s a no._ Sansa took him back into her mouth, enjoying the little hiss of pleasure he made. _He likes being inside my mouth, he likes it when I lick, and he likes being stroked._ Would it be possible to do all those things at once?

It was a slightly daunting idea, but what Stannis had done for her had felt incredible. She wanted to make him feel something different and special, too. She wanted to give him something he had never had before.

Determined, she set to work. It was very easy to simply stroke him as she had stroked him so often before, and lick the head at the same time. But that was only two of the things he liked. A bit of experimentation later, Sansa figured out how to keep a part of Stannis’ manhood inside her mouth and move her head up and down in time with her hand’s strokes. Licking at the same time was tricky, but judging by the gasps and moans and the jerky movements of Stannis’ hips, she was definitely doing something right.

Partially to rest, and partially to see what sort of state she had put her king in, Sansa stopped what she was doing and looked at Stannis’ face. “Good?”

He nodded frantically, and for a second she thought he might use his hand to push her head back down. But he just waved it uselessly in the air instead.

“Anything I can do to make it better?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.

“I - I don’t know,” he said, his nostrils flaring. “It’s good.”

“I want it to be better than good.” Sansa gave him a stubborn look.

Stannis swallowed. “Maybe… tighter? Could you make it tighter?”

She furrowed her brow, wondering what he meant. “I’ll try,” she said, “let me know if it’s any better.”

She started again. This time she gripped him more firmly with her hand and tried a few different things with her mouth. After causing him to flinch - probably due to her teeth - she abandoned the idea of trying to purse her lips more tightly, and tried sucking on the tip instead.

A strangled noise of pleasure reached her ears, and his hips bucked so violently that he sent his manhood too deep into her mouth. She drew back in a hurry, gagging and spluttering.

“Don’t,” she complained. “You have to keep still.” She wasn’t that put out with him, though. Not _really._ His passionate reaction was actually pretty delightful.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, breathless and more needy than she had ever heard him be. His eyes were begging her to continue.

She lowered her head and began once more, this time feeling fairly confident about what she needed to do. Stroke the shaft, suck on the head. Mind her teeth. Nothing very complicated in theory, but _not_ easy. Her jaw started to ache after a little while, and her hand got tired. The salty taste of him became more bitter, too, and sucking so much was exhausting. She would have stopped after a couple of minutes if it weren’t for the noises he made and the way he started swearing under his breath and chanting her name like it was a prayer.

Still, she did not think she would last until he climaxed. She had developed a pretty good feel for how long it usually took him, and she was not sure she’d last even half as long. And she’d quite like for him to do something about the empty feeling between her thighs before he finished.

With that in mind, Sansa decided that she would start slowing down.

“Sansa, fuck, Sansa, _please_ …”

She tightened her grip a little in response to his moans, and felt him shudder. He groaned and bucked up again, but this time he managed not to gag her with his manhood. Instead he flooded her mouth with something warm, bitter, and salty.

 _His seed,_ she realised, panicking a little. She hadn’t expected it to come so soon. She pulled back and swallowed some of it, but dribbled some of it down her chin. Stannis didn’t notice. His eyes were closed, and he looked utterly lost to the world. She could see more of his seed leaking from his manhood, and his hips were twitching every now and again.

She wiped her chin and tried not to mourn her plans to straddle him and ride him to her own completion. She was not leaving for _at least_ another fortnight. There would be more opportunities.

***

“Is that knight no longer bothering you, m’lady?” Talia asked one night as she brushed her hair.

Stannis had learnt to kiss her without leaving marks, and knew just how hard and for how long he could suck on her neck without leaving bruises. She hadn’t had to wear her high-collared gown at all since those first few days.

“No, I managed to explain to him that though his ardour was most impressive, I am to wed a high lord,” Sansa said, her stomach shrinking. _A high lord, not a king._

“Too right,” Talia said, sniffing. “It was dreadfully impertinent of him to go so far as to kiss you, m’lady.”

“Kissing is harmless if that’s all there is,” Sansa said, gazing into her vanity’s mirror without really seeing her reflection.

Talia hummed noncommittally, and was quiet for a little while. “The king is more than kissing someone judging from what I’ve heard in the kitchens,” she then said, breaking the silence. “Apparently it’s been going on for _weeks._ ”

“Oh?” Sansa said, doing her hardest not to blush.

“Yes,” Talia said, obviously quite eager to spread the gossip to someone who hadn’t heard. “Mag always goes to great lengths to make pies and cakes for the white cloaks at odd hours so they have something warm to eat when they come off their shifts. They’re very grateful of course, and sometimes they let things slip. Little pieces that Mag has been able to put together.”

“How industrious of her,” Sansa said, trying to keep her tone suitably interested but not _too_ keen.

Talia continued to brush Sansa’s hair and met her eyes in the mirror. They were shining brightly. “Mag says that sometimes the guards come down to the kitchens after their night shifts with their faces bright red, or else grinning to themselves. They say things about _sounds_ , and _stamina._ ”

Sansa swallowed. “Oh my.”

“Mag thinks it must be one of the chambermaids, but whoever it is - they’re not talking. And Mag’s offered to bake them cakes for a month if they’ll just admit to it and show her some proof.”

“Proof?” Sansa asked, furrowing her brow.

Talia shrugged. “Don’t kings always give their mistresses gifts, m’lady? Jewels or the like? Should be easy for a _real_ mistress to show some proof.”

Sansa watched her own reflection force a smile. Stannis had not given her any jewels and she did not know whether she would be wise to accept such a gift. But the time approached for her to need the tansy tea he had promised, and that was a gift she would have to accept, even though the thought pained her.

The thought did not pain her half as much as the thought of leaving Storm’s End did, however.


	12. The Sapphire Isle

Stannis arranged for moon tea to be delivered - _very discreetly_ \- to his own chambers. He watched Sansa drink it, his chest uncomfortably tight the whole time. The moon tea brought her courses about, so Stannis’ bed became a lonely place again. He cherished the dawn visits to the parapets all the more for it.

Presently it had only been two days since she drank the tea, but being unable to fall asleep next to her was already becoming physically painful. Just as it was painful to be forced to pretend, in public, as if their relationship were entirely free of the emotions that made his heart beat faster every time he caught sight of her.

“What are your plans for the day, my lord?” Ser Gerald asked Rickon as they made their way back inside after they finished the morning’s training exercises.

Stannis made sure to listen to the boy’s reply. Rickon often spent at least a part of his day with his sister, and Stannis liked hearing Rickon talk of her.

“Sansa said we don’t have to do etiquette lessons today,” Rickon said, grinning at Ser Gerald. “We’re going to ride up the coast! Ser Andrew told Sansa that we’ll be able to get a much closer look at Tarth if the weather holds. I wanted us to sail to Tarth, but Sansa says it would take too long, and that we shouldn’t impose on Lord Tarth without sending a raven first.”

Stannis was aware that Sansa and Rickon frequently took day trips that allowed them to see more of the stormlands. He had even accompanied them a few times -- when he had not been too busy with administrative tasks. He had not accompanied them on such a trip since he and Sansa had begun their affair, however. It had not seemed wise.

“I will accompany you,” Stannis heard himself say. He closed his eyes and resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. _You said it. You can’t take it back now._ He opened his eyes again and cleared his throat, ignoring the amused look in Ser Gerald’s eyes. “When do you intend to depart?”

Rickon turned his head to regard Stannis, excitement plain on his young face. “Sansa said she wanted us to leave as soon as I’d bathed and dressed. Will you really come, Your Grace? Will you ride Black Storm?”

The Storm’s End master of horse had informed Stannis that Rickon had taken a great shine to Stannis’ mount, and would often visit the stables and attempt to wheedle the stable hands into letting him ride the destrier.

“I expect so,” Stannis said, experiencing a tight sensation in his stomach when Rickon grinned widely and exclaimed with jubilation. He could remember Renly being similarly excited about simple things like fine horseflesh and splendid clothing.

 _But it is not a well-bred destrier or a sable-trimmed cloak that makes a lord a lord._ Renly had never seemed to understand that. _Perhaps he would have learnt to understand it if Robert had not made him Lord of Storm’s End when he was far too young. Perhaps he would have learnt if I had been here to guide him instead of being exiled to Dragonstone..._

Stannis scowled at the bitter taste that appeared in his mouth, and was relieved when the time came to part ways with Lord Stark and Ser Gerald.

Knowing that the ride Sansa had planned for her brother and herself was a lengthy one, Stannis was quick about bathing and dressing. He chose plain, comfortable riding garb, and well-worn boots of the highest quality of leather. The doublet he wore was the same one he had worn the day Sansa had given him the little bunch of kingcups. It was a good doublet for riding.

The master of horse himself stood with Black Storm’s reins in his hands when Stannis arrived in the stable’s courtyard. A couple of grooms stood nearby with Sansa and Rickon’s palfreys at the ready, and Stannis spotted several other mounts a little further off. Ser Andrew and Ser Simon would need horses after all, and Sansa and Rickon’s attendants, too.

To keep himself from pacing impatiently as he waited for Sansa to arrive, Stannis decided to mount Black Storm and let the horse do his pacing for him. Thus, he was too busy struggling to keep the beast from galloping towards the gate to even notice when Sansa and Rickon appeared. The horses all noticed however, as Shaggydog was with the Starks. The wolf bounded over to Stannis to greet him, but the direwolf’s sudden approach caused Black Storm to scream his outrage and rear, almost throwing Stannis off.

“Shaggydog, to me!” Rickon shouted. “Sorry, Your Grace.”

“No matter,” Stannis said waving the boy’s apology off once he had all of Black Storm’s hooves back on the ground. “Though your brother’s wolf is much better behaved,” he added, a reproving edge to his voice. He chose not to rebuke Rickon further as Sansa was looking at him, a concerned expression on her unusually pale and drawn face. She had looked much better on the parapets earlier. What could have changed in such a short amount of time?

 _The moon tea,_ Stannis realised. _Her courses. Of course the idea of a long ride would make her pale._ For a moment he considered forbidding the outing. Sansa was in no fit state to be going on trips. But almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he realised he could not draw attention to her condition. Or indeed, the fact that he was paying close enough attention to her to notice it himself.

“Is the wheelhouse ready?” he said instead, looking at the master of horse expectantly.

“The wheelhouse, Your Grace?” the man repeated, looking startled.

“For Lady Sansa and Lord Stark?” Stannis went on, allowing a suitable amount of irritation to bleed into his voice. “They will want to rest on the journey back.”

Rickon immediately began to declare that he would not get tired, and that wheelhouses were boring. Sansa said nothing. But she did give him a grateful look that made him straighten his back and feel as he imagined he would if he ever slew a dragon.

Soon the wheelhouse was ready and the little riding party found itself on the road. Ser Simon rode ahead, his white cloak billowing behind him, charged with making sure the path they meant to take held no unpleasant surprises. Meanwhile, Ser Andrew kept himself fairly close without being intrusive. Sansa and Rickon rode their palfreys a little way behind Stannis, and further back the empty wheelhouse creaked along, attended by the rest of the riding party. Stannis wanted to ride beside Sansa, but resisted the impulse. He could not resist keeping within hearing range of her and Rickon, however.

“... you may ask him, but do not expect him to say yes. He is the king, and Black Storm is no doubt a very valuable horse with specific needs,” Sansa was saying, sounding stern.

“No I meant for _you_ to ask,” Rickon answered, a pleading note in his voice, “he’ll say yes if _you_ ask.”

“Don’t be silly. You are the Lord of Winterfell. You can’t have me running interference with the king for you. If you wish to make a request you must first think whether it is a reasonable request. If it is, you must then wait for an appropriate moment to make it. Most importantly, you must make the request in a humble, courteous way, and be gracious if it is denied.”

“Sansa,” Rickon groaned, “you said we wouldn’t need to do etiquette lessons today…”

“I’m not teaching you etiquette to torment you, Rickon,” Sansa said calmly. “Courtesy is a tool you must learn to wield, just as you must learn to wield sword and bow and lance. If you learn it well, you may be able to avoid a lot of unnecessary fights.”

Shaggydog made a sound that was half howl, half bark. Stannis used the sound as an excuse to glance back at Sansa and Rickon and examine their faces. Sansa was still pale, but two spots of colour had appeared high on her cheeks. Rickon’s expression mostly looked like the physical manifestation of the pained noise the direwolf had just made.

Stannis pretended to have heard nothing of Rickon’s conversation with his sister when the boy caught up with Black Storm moments later.

“Your Grace? Might I - might I make a request?”

Stannis pretended to think it over. “You may, Lord Stark,” he said at length.

Rickon glanced back at his sister with a grin before looking solemnly at Stannis again. “Might I ride Black Storm sometime? Just for a minute?” The boy gave him a pleading look. “Please?”

Stannis sighed internally. As much as he would like to say yes - if only to please Sansa by pleasing her brother - he did not think it would be wise for Rickon to try his luck with Black Storm. The stallion was exceptionally spirited, and required a very firm hand. Should the horse rear with the young lord on his back the boy might get seriously injured.

“No, Lord Stark. You may not,” Stannis said, curious to see whether Rickon would accept the denial graciously as Sansa had instructed.

For a moment it looked as if Rickon would argue, or demand the reason for the denial. Stannis’ jaw tightened. But then the boy closed his eyes. When he opened them, he squared his shoulders and nodded. “As you say, Your Grace. Thank you for hearing my request.”

Stannis nodded. His jaw no longer felt tight, but he kept it clenched to prevent himself from giving into the strange urge to smile.

Rickon seemed ready to slow his horse and fall back to join Sansa, and Stannis decided to speak before he had a chance to do so. “I will, however, send you the next foal he sires. You will assist your master of horse in training it, and once it is grown, I expect you will be old enough to handle such a mount.”

Rickon’s mouth dropped open. He blinked several times. Then, as suddenly as a dolphin leapt from the sea, a wide grin appeared on his face. He looked ready to whoop and shout, and Stannis noticed the direwolf run about and leap giddily nearby. But rather than shout, Rickon gave a dignified nod. “Thank you, Your Grace. That is most generous of you.”

When Rickon had joined his sister again, Stannis overheard the boy say several much more exuberant things about the matter, but that was only natural.

_He is learning to be a gracious and courteous lord. And it is Sansa’s doing._

Thinking of Sansa caused a pang of longing to shoot through him. The desire to ride beside her intensified, and Stannis couldn’t help the way his head turned to look at her. She smiled at him when she caught his gaze, and as if she had read his mind, she sped her horse up and fell into step with him.

“My brother has told me of your intentions to gift him a foal,” Sansa began, still smiling. “And here I thought you had little in common with King Robert. He was known to be open-handed.”

Stannis snorted. “Too open-handed by far. I will be paying his debts until I am four and ninety. If I live that long.”

Under most circumstances, this sort of conversation would have put Stannis in an irritated mood. Robert and the Crown’s debts were not topics Stannis relished. But Stannis found that he did not care about Robert or counting coppers at the moment. Sansa was riding beside him in broad daylight, smiling at him, and looking much less pale than she had before.

“You’re right,” Sansa said, nodding. “A king should not be too generous, but neither should he be miserly. Royal gifts carry more meaning when they come from a king who is... selective.”

Her implied approval had his heart speeding up -- as it so often seemed to do in her presence.

“Royal or not, gifts should be bestowed upon the worthy,” Stannis said, gripping the reins more tightly. The horse seemed to sense his restlessness, and was clearly itching to gallop off.

“Then I’m glad you deem my brother worthy, Your Grace,” Sansa said, her voice as sweet as it ever was when she was in his bed, and her eyes full of love.

Stannis glanced around furtively, wondering whether anyone was close enough to notice. Ser Andrew was still keeping a respectful distance, and the attendants were keeping pace with the empty wheelhouse some way off. Rickon was the closest rider, but he was laughing at Shaggydog’s antics, and paying no attention to his sister.

Seizing the chance, Stannis gave Sansa a concerned look and changed the subject. “Are you feeling well? You looked very pale before. Should you be riding such a distance?” He kept his voice quiet, trying to make sure it wouldn’t carry.

“I’m perfectly well, Stannis,” Sansa said, equally quietly. “I have weathered this storm with every turn of the moon since I was three and ten. I assure you, I will be just fine.” 

Feeling his cheeks warm, Stannis nodded. “If you’re certain.”

“I am,” Sansa said firmly. “But I’m glad you asked for the wheelhouse. I have never been an exceptional horse woman.” She smiled again. “It will be good to rest on the way back.”

The rest of the day passed by in much the same way. Stannis would ride beside Sansa at times, stealing what moments of private conversation he could, and enjoying her company and her smiles. The ocean was never far away, the sound of its waves soothing, the smell of it familiar and comforting. It was a clear day, and as they rode, their view of Tarth became better and better. Rickon galloped towards a sandy beach at one point, Shaggydog fast on his heels, and returned with an enormous conch for his sister.

“I wanted to find a sapphire, but there weren’t any,” Rickon explained breathlessly.

“Why would there be sapphires?” Sansa asked, smiling and shaking her head.

“Tarth is the Sapphire Isle, isn’t it? And I thought maybe some of them might have floated over.”

Stannis knew that Rickon’s fancy was only that: a fancy, but he could not help but approve of his desire to gift his sister with sapphires. Approve very much.

“It’s called the Sapphire Isle because of the colour of the sea around it,” Sansa said, still smiling. “You should know this.” She glanced at Stannis and then at the sky, almost as if to say: ‘do you see what I must contend with?’

Stannis could not respond. He could do nothing but stare at Sansa’s eyes in helpless admiration. Their bright clear colour put the ocean around the Sapphire Isles to shame.


	13. A Queen’s Sandal. A King’s Crown.

“Are you well?” Stannis asked on the fourth morning since he had given her the moon tea, just as he had asked her on the ride along the coast, and just as he had asked her yesterday morning. They were standing on the parapets, and the sun had only just risen.

She nodded, giving him a sidelong look. “You know I am. There is still a little blood, but it doesn’t hurt.”

He had been too proud to say it before, but being without her for three nights had worn his resolve down to nothing. Still, he chewed on the words before he managed to get them out. “I miss you.”

“I’m right here,” Sansa said, giving him a soft smile.

Stannis shook his head, furrowing his brow. “I miss you at night. I miss having you close.”

She searched his face. “Why?” She did not look confused. Simply curious.

Stannis knew that she wanted him to put his feelings into words, but did she honestly think that he _could_? Had he not told her that he was no poet? He sighed and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her as close as possible. “Because I love you,” he said into her hair.

“I love you too,” she said, something in her voice making his heart leap and contract all at once. 

They were quiet for a while, their embrace fierce.

Eventually Sansa sighed and pulled back. Her eyes seemed dark. Troubled. “But I have received a raven from Howland Reed. Rickon is needed in Winterfell. I am needed. You will have to learn to do without me, as I will have to learn to do without you.”

Though Stannis had known this day would come - the beginning of the end - he still felt blindsided. His stomach plummeted, and shards of glass lodged themselves in his lungs.

The pain of it was more intense than he could ever have anticipated.

Wounded, Stannis wanted to rage and shout. He wanted to command her to stay by his side forever. He wanted to turn his kingdom on its head so that things could be _different._ He opened his mouth, but closed it almost at once. Renly’s face floated to the forefront of his mind, and then Rickon’s. 

Stannis thought of how Renly had turned out without a firm hand to guide him, and he thought of Rickon’s gracious acceptance when Stannis had denied his request to ride Black Storm.

_The north needs Lord Stark, and Lord Stark needs his sister._

A selfish voice whispered that he needed her too. Did that mean nothing?

Stannis embraced Sansa again and squeezed her more tightly than before, his insides twisting painfully. “When will you go?”

“As soon as _The Vengeful Merman_ arrives from King’s Landing. It will take less time for Lord Manderly to sail to Storm’s End to collect us than for us to ride to King’s Landing and disembark from there.”

“Have you already sent him a raven?”

“Yes.”

As if to reflect Stannis’ mood, it began to rain. Without speaking, the both headed towards the stairway, seeking shelter.

“Come to my chambers tonight,” Stannis asked before they reached the bottom of the stairs. Before there was a chance his guard might overhear.

Sansa gave him a startled look. “I’m still bleeding.”

“I would value your company regardless,” he said, meeting her eyes steadily.

Quickly, Sansa rose to her toes and kissed him. She smiled at him when they came apart, her eyes soft. “Tonight,” she said.

_Tonight._

***

“I can’t believe he did that,” Sansa said, kissing his neck and petting his chest. “It was most unkind.”

They were lying in bed together, and even though they would not pleasure one another on this night, there was still a different kind of pleasure to be had. 

Just holding her was enough. 

Stannis, for some reason he could not explain to himself, had decided to tell Sansa about Proudwing, and how Robert had called her Weakwing for being unable to fly further than the treetops.

“He was right,” Stannis muttered. But it still stung, even after all these years. “The bird was weak.”

“Yes, but she was _yours,_ and she loved you for saving her life,” Sansa said, her voice passionate. “Your brother had no right to call her weak. She survived, didn’t she? Sometimes just surviving is enough.” Her breath hitched, and she fell silent.

“Robert was always a warrior,” Stannis said slowly, allowing Sansa the time to collect herself. “In his mind there was only defeat or victory. Shame or glory. And in his mind, a hawk that could not hunt could not bring with it any glory.”

Before this moment, Stannis had never attempted to see the matter differently.

 _’Sometimes just surviving is enough’. There is wisdom there._ His own daughter had survived greyscale as a child. She had been weakened, but she had survived. Now she was as strong as any woman Stannis had ever met. Stronger, even. She would be a formidable queen. She was already a formidable princess.

“He was stupid,” Sansa said, her voice muffled.

Stannis went still for a moment, unsure how to react to such a blunt statement from Sansa. He had not heard Robert criticised in such a manner in _decades._ Then the corners of his mouth twitched. “Yes. Yes he was.”

“The next hatchling at Winterfell will be named Proudwing. I have never had very much time for hawking, but I will make time,” Sansa said, still speaking with passion in her voice. “I swear it.”

He kissed her, thanking her without words.

They were silent for a while, and Stannis thought about everything Sansa had said. A warm feeling settled in his bones, and something that had long since been fractured felt as if it had been bolstered and mended. Yet something was nagging at him. Something Sansa had said -- the emotion in her voice as she had said it…

_Sometimes just surviving is enough._

“Sansa?”

“Mm?”

“What did you survive?” He grimaced as soon as the question left his lips. She had survived the Lannisters. She had survived the viper’s nest in King’s Landing, the War of the Five Kings, and the War for the Dawn. Granted, she had not fought in any battles, but she had survived nonetheless.

“You know what I endured at Joffrey’s hands,” Sansa said quietly.

Stannis didn’t know what to say. _I shouldn’t have asked._

After a lengthy silence, Sansa began to speak again. “I - when I escaped Joffrey... when Petyr - Lord Baelish - took me to the Vale, I thought he was taking me home. He said he was taking me home. But he meant the Fingers. _His_ home. That was always how it was with him. He’d say something, but it was never quite the truth. He always made you assume things…” she trailed off and took a deep breath. “Aunt Lysa died because she saw him kiss me. I had to lie and say that it wasn’t Petyr who killed her. I had to lie, and lie, and lie again. My name was a lie, my hair… everything. It was all a lie. And I thought that if I ever stopped lying, I’d die.”

The hairs on the back of Stannis’ neck had risen, and it was as if an icy fist had gripped his heart. 

_You are not the first man to desire me._

_I never wanted any of them._

“He kissed you? When?”

“He kissed me more than once,” Sansa said, her voice far away. “But the first time was when it snowed… I was making Winterfell and he helped me. And then he kissed me. I was four and ten.”

Stannis tightened his hold on Sansa. “What do you mean he kissed you more than once?” His voice broke. “Did he -” He stopped himself. Sansa had been a maiden untouched when she came to his bed.

“I don’t know what he had planned. Not truly. He said he wanted me to marry Harrold Hardyng. Harry would have inherited the Vale upon Lord Robert Arryn’s death. Petyr said he wanted to give me the north. But the north was not his to give, and his plans to appease Bronze Yohn Royce came to nothing.”

Sansa’s face was buried against him, so Stannis could not see her face. But he could feel how she shuddered with each breath, and his chest was usually not so wet.

“I got tired of lying for him,” she whispered.

Stannis had rarely felt as helpless. His body felt cold and numb, and yet his blood was rushing in his ears, an impotent rage consuming him. Petyr Baelish had never seemed like anyone of consequence to Stannis. So lowborn that he might as well have been a commoner. No threat, no one that would presume to take over the Vale and the vast north.

 _He meant to marry her. Use her claim._ Stannis realised. _He meant to become Lord of Winterfell._

Or why stop there? Perhaps the snake had intended to take the iron throne, too?

“He’s dead,” Stannis said through gritted teeth, his blood rushing more loudly in his ears than ever. He was not sure if he said it for Sansa’s benefit or his own. “He was justly tried for his crimes thanks to you, and got pushed out the Moon Door like he deserved.”

“I know.” Her voice sounded stronger. Steadier.

“But he should never have been allowed to hurt you,” Stannis said, his innards feeling tight and cold and terrible.

“It’s in the past,” Sansa sighed, lifting her head to kiss his neck. “I’m safe now.”

He closed his eyes and imagined for a moment that he was not a careworn king. He imagined being a young knight, free to swear his shield to her. His sword. His life.

“And you will remain safe,” Stannis promised, his voice sounding so fierce that it almost startled him.

“Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms is safe while you and yours sit on the Iron Throne,” Sansa said, raising her head further and kissing him full on the lips.

His fantasy of being a young knight faded as quickly as it had formed, and Stannis kissed Sansa back, suddenly feeling very aware of one of his many titles. _Protector of the Realm._ The weight of the responsibility felt more tangible than it often did, but it did not feel like a burden at the moment. It felt more like a sigil he could wear, proudly emblazoned on his breastplate for all the world to see.

“I love you.” The words left him without any conscious thought when their lips parted.

“I love you, too,” Sansa said, her voice no longer far away as it had been when she had spoken of Lord Baelish. Instead it was full of warmth and happiness.

***

Two nights after Sansa had opened herself about what had happened to her in the Vale, she came to Stannis with a smile on her lips.

“I’m no longer bleeding,” she told him, her hands travelling down his body.

Memories of their many interludes assaulted him, and a familiar pressure started to make itself known in his groin at once. He tried to ignore the illicit images, and managed it for the most part. The memory of Sansa’s mouth on him proved especially tenacious, however, and he had to suppress a groan. The pleasure of her mouth had been more than any mortal man could be expected to cope with. Just the thought of her offering to kiss him thus again had caused his cock to twitch to life at _three_ separate occasions over the past few days. One of those occasions had nearly been utterly mortifying; Stannis had been in a meeting with Ser Gerald. If it hadn’t been for the table… Stannis pushed the thought away and took a deep steadying breath. He stopped Sansa from reaching beneath his doublet and brought her hands to his mouth. He kissed each palm in turn. “There’s no hurry.”

It wasn’t precisely true. Every day that went past brought Lord Manderly closer. Every hour that went by seemed a threat to the fragile happiness Stannis had found.

But though the pleasures of the flesh were, well, _pleasureable_ with Sansa, he liked just having her near him, too. He liked holding her close and confiding in her. He felt honoured when she confided in him. He liked it when she told him lighthearted tales of her day or stories about her siblings. He liked hearing her opinions and her plans for her brother and Winterfell. He liked the sound of her voice so much that he had even taken to asking her to sing every now and again.

“What would you like to do, then?” Sansa asked, curious rather than impatient.

“Perhaps you would favour me with a song?”

She gave him a mischievous look. “The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown?”

Warmth climbed from his neck up to his face. “If you like.”

Sansa led him to bed and indicated with a little push that he should sit down. He did so, though he frowned at her for her impertinence. She remained standing, a teasing smile playing on her lips.

She began to sing, but the lyrics of the song hardly registered in Stannis’ mind. Usually he was much better at paying attention, but usually Sansa was not stripping her gown off as she sang.

 _I should stop her,_ he thought, swallowing. _... After she’s down to her shift._

He remained paralysed as she sang the first verse, taking her slippers off, unbuttoning a button here, unlacing a bit of her gown there - though she had to enlist his help to loosen her bodice - rolling a stocking down, and then another. But when she started the second verse he realised he was wearing far too many clothes himself. He stood and began to disrobe.

Somehow he didn’t manage to do it nearly as seductively as Sansa did. … Trying to balance on one foot as he pulled his boot off may have been a mistake. Sansa did not laugh when he lost his balance and had to sit down on the bed quite quickly. She just smiled as she sang, her eyes sparkling.

He watched, transfixed, as she let her hair loose.

Once he was only wearing his smallclothes, and she was down to her shift, they both crawled into bed. Sansa had reached the last verse, and Stannis waited for her to finish, taking the liberty of stroking her arm as she did.

She fell silent, and for a moment Stannis just closed his eyes and enjoyed the stillness and the warmth.

“I like the way you hold me,” Sansa said after a while, her voice dreamy. “Like I’m precious, but not fragile.”

He hummed and opened his eyes in time to see her lick her lips. He couldn’t help but kiss her after such a sight. The kiss was soft and lingering in a way Stannis had never known a kiss could be before Sansa.

“... and like you don’t want to let me go,” she added in a whisper.

He tightened his hold a fraction. “I don’t.”

They said nothing after that, because they’d been over this, and there was nothing more to say. Instead they held each other, and every now and then they kissed. Eventually, when they made love, they did so slowly, kissing every inch of one another to become thoroughly reacquainted.


	14. Grief

“Is it _The Vengeful Merman_?” Sansa asked, squinting at the ship that had appeared in the distance. It was hard to tell in the pre-dawn light, and she was not as good at telling ships apart as Stannis was.

He shifted closer to her on the parapets, and tilted his head to the side. “Might be.” His tone was reluctant. Disgruntled.

“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” she said, stepping into his arms and getting on the tips of her toes to kiss him. He returned the kiss with more passion than she had expected, and she could not help the little noise of surprise that escaped her. Stannis’ kisses had been so sweet lately, and though they had bedded several times since her moonblood ran dry, they had spent even more time just holding each other. Sometimes talking, sometimes not.

As it turned out, his passionate kiss on the parapets was only the first of many that day.

They were usually very careful not to so much as let their hands touch when they were anywhere except Stannis’ bedchamber or on the parapets, but today Stannis seemed to appear whenever she was in a secluded corridor, or a shady corner of the courtyard. Her lips swelled like they had those first few days, and she began to fret that she would have to invent some lie for Talia if he kept this up.

Sansa knew why he was behaving this way. Lord Manderly had sent word. He’d be at the castle by nightfall. 

Today the end of her affair with Stannis loomed closer than ever.

“Come here,” Stannis murmured when he found her walking down an abandoned corridor in the late afternoon.

She looked around, a thrill of excitement racing down her spine. The Kingsguard was nowhere to be seen. He led her into a secret passage she had never seen before, concealed behind a tapestry.

“I’ve had a raven from Davos,” Stannis said in between passionate kisses, his hands roaming from her breasts to her buttocks restlessly. “Your brother and my daughter are doing well, but Davos writes that I am nonetheless missed.”

“By him, certainly,” Sansa said, her voice breathless.

“You do not think Jon and Shireen miss me?” he raised a brow, but his tone was not overly offended.

“I’m sure Jon is enjoying married life without his frightening good-father around to dampen the mood. The princess will most likely be with child by now.”

“You think I’m frightening?” Stannis demanded, clearly doing his best to sound affronted. The effect was ruined due to the way he was kissing her neck in between words, and fondling her rear. Somehow he had managed to get his hands up under her skirt.

“Mmm, terrifying,” Sansa giggled. “Can’t you feel me tremble?”

“Hush, wench,” Stannis said sternly, his fingers wriggling into her smallclothes and stroking her folds.

Sansa did tremble at that, but not from fear. A small whimper escaped her when he found just the right spot.

“I’m going to take you right here, right now,” Stannis said into her ear, stroking her gently. His breath was hot on her neck, and her heart sped up in response to it -- though it had already been beating fast. “Right up against this wall.”

 _He can’t be serious,_ was Sansa’s first thought. _Can he?_

But Stannis was tugging on the laces at the front of his breeches with his free hand, and pulling the hard length of his manhood out. His clever fingers, so familiar with her body now, had worked her into a lather. So even though she could hardly believe he was really doing this, she could do nothing but wrap her legs around his hips and her arms around his neck when he hoisted her up and pressed her against the wall with his weight.

With her skirts bunched up and her smallclothes shoved out of the way, his manhood slipped inside with ease she would not have believed a few weeks ago, and Stannis groaned with pleasure. She let out a little noise of her own, enjoying the feeling of being filled as she always did, even though the position was decidedly odd, and the angle not entirely comfortable. For a moment he stood still. They were both breathing hard.

“I mislike hiding you as if this were a crime,” Stannis said as he began to move, thrusting upwards sharply. He could not retreat very far without unbalancing them, so the following thrusts were all equally sharp and short. “I’d sooner take you like this in the Great Hall. Or the throne room in King’s Landing.” 

Coupling like this wasn’t nearly as pleasant as it was to ride him, but she could feel herself clench up around Stannis’ intrusion in response to his words, and little gasps left her lungs in every breath.

“You don’t mean that,” she said, kissing his neck. Stannis was an intensely private man.

He sped up, grunting in a way that made it clear that he would not be continuing the conversation anytime soon, and Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and moaned. She could not help but imagine the scene: herself and the king on the steps leading upto the Iron Throne, wrapped up in each other’s pleasure, not caring that anyone might see, their mingled cries of ecstasy echoing off the high vaulted ceiling…

She clenched up again, more powerfully. Stannis groaned as if she’d kicked him in the gut, but she knew it was a sound of pleasure.

By the time he spilled his seed, he was panting with the effort of it all, and sweating noticeably. Sansa wondered fleetingly what the state of her gown would be after this. Scuff marks on the back, probably. Her skirts would hide any wet stains, she hoped. Still, she’d need to hurry to the nearest privy if she was to rescue her stockings. Stannis’ seed would drip down the insides of her thighs and stain everything in its path if she didn’t act quickly.

“You were right,” Stannis said when he had caught his breath. He had put her on her feet and was in the middle of lacing up his breeches. Due to the task he was looking down rather than at her. His voice was low and melancholy. “I do not truly wish to take you in the throne room. Not with witnesses about, at least.”

Something within her seemed to tighten, but she forced herself to smile. Of course she had been right.

“I do wish that you could sit beside the Iron Throne, however,” Stannis continued. “I am the king. I could make it happen. I could set Selyse aside… you could be my queen, Sansa…” There was love in his voice, and something else - something vulnerable and fragile - that Sansa did not want to recognise.

For a moment Sansa closed her eyes and let herself imagine it, her heart expanding and warming her all the way to the tips of her toes. Wedding Stannis. Loving him for all the realm to see. Being there for him when he needed her care, and receiving his care in return. Sharing his bed openly and giving him trueborn sons and daughters with midnight in their hair.

As soon as the warmth had washed through her, it abandoned her.

_Our sons would supplant Shireen and Jon._

_And what of Rickon?_ Sansa knew he was not ready. She could not leave him.

“We talked about this,” Sansa said, her breath hitching in her throat. She opened her eyes, met Stannis’ gaze, and hated herself when she saw the hope that she had heard in Stannis’ voice die. “I don’t want to be the Queen of Westeros. I don’t want to destroy the peace that you have worked so hard to establish. That we have _all_ worked so hard to establish. And I know you don’t want that either. You’re just not - you’re not thinking properly right now.”

Stannis glared at her, his face hardening. “I do not have to give you a choice in this.”

“Of course you don’t have to give me a choice,” Sansa sighed, hiding the pain his words caused her as best she could. _He doesn’t mean it. He would never do that to me._ “But I would never have given you a shred of my heart if I thought it was in your nature to do something so cruel. You are no Rhaegar Targaryen, Stannis. And I am not Lyanna. We must - we must think of the realm.”

Stannis barely moved, and yet Sansa felt as if she had just witnessed something in him collapse. She wished she could close her eyes, but she knew she couldn’t. She had to keep her back straight, and she had to be _strong_ \-- no matter how much it hurt. If she allowed him to hope that she might waver at this moment - that she might change her mind - she knew he would ask her again.

And Sansa wasn’t certain she’d be able to deny him twice.

“I have to go,” Stannis said, his voice strained. He didn’t wait to hear her response. He whirled around and left the passageway, leaving her alone in the gloom.

If Sansa didn’t know that Stannis was not the sort of man who cried, she would have suspected that he had left in a hurry to keep her from seeing him break apart.

 _But we cannot afford the luxury of tears,_ Sansa thought, inhaling sharply and blinking so fast that the stone walls became a blur. _We must do our duty._

By the time Sansa left the passageway, her stockings were stained, and the dull throb between her thighs matched the ache in her heart.

***

Stannis had not cried since the storm that took his parents had raged. It was a childish, useless thing to do, and it did not soften the blows life dealt. But there had been a childish part of him that had truly believed that if he offered Sansa the crown, she would not be able to say no. A childish reaction to her rejection made a strange sort of sense.

But no. These were not a child’s emotions. Stannis knew what he was experiencing, even though it made little sense. He had felt this pain often enough. 

It was grief.

 _No one has died, you fool,_ he thought, pacing angrily from one corner of his chambers to the other, pressing the heels of his hands against his closed eyelids. _You are behaving like an absurd, untested youth._

 _My hope for a future with Sansa has died._

It had only been a fool’s hope. A child’s hope. But now it was gone.

_I should not have asked her. I should have kept silent._

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

Stannis threw a vase at it. It shattered satisfyingly into a million pieces. “WHAT?” he snarled. Shouting was satisfying, too.

“Lord Manderly has arrived, Your Grace,” his squire squeaked, the voice so tremulous that it could barely be heard through the closed door.

“I will see him at supper,” Stannis said, still half shouting, a growl in his voice. _Better to sound angry than broken._

“I’ll r-relay the message, Your Grace.”

Stannis heard his squire retreat down away from the door and take off at nearly a run. He took a deep breath and rubbed his face vigorously.

A few more deep breaths later he was glaring at the mess on the floor and wondering why in the seven hells he had thought it a good idea to break a damn vase.

 _The woman has driven me mad,_ he decided, scowling.

And the worst thing was: it was a madness he wished to cling to for as long as he could.

***

“You both look like you’re at a funeral!” Lord Manderly boomed when they had been sitting at the supper table for less than five minutes.

Rickon snorted into his soup. Sansa thought it was probably due to the offended expression on the King’s face, but perhaps it was her own reaction that her brother was laughing at. She hoped not.

“If you were expecting a grand feast -” Stannis began, speaking through gritted teeth.

“No no no,” Lord Manderly interrupted, “not at all, Your Grace. But you two are as pale as death. The only one in this room who looks like he’s been enjoying himself is Lord Stark!” Manderly nodded genially at Rickon.

Rickon grinned back. “It’s been an adventure,” he said. “Shaggydog loves it here! Much more prey to chase than at home.”

“Oh, there’s plenty of game in the north now that summer is here,” Manderly said.

“When do you intend to set sail, Lord Manderly?” Stannis suddenly asked, putting his spoon down after taking barely a mouthful of his soup.

Manderly looked surprised by the swift change of subject, but was quick to hide it. “Lord Stark is needed in the north. It would not be wise to dally. Three days should be enough time for him and Lady Sansa to pack and say their goodbyes, yes?” Manderly gave Sansa and Rickon expectant looks.

 _Three days._ That was no time at all. “Yes, of course,” Sansa said, making herself smile. Stannis gave her a wounded look. She bowed her head and stared at her untouched bowl of soup, blinking fast.

“Will you come watch us train tomorrow, Lord Manderly?” Rickon asked, thankfully drawing Manderly’s attention away from her and Stannis. “I’m nearly as good as King Stannis with a dagger! And we’re doing daggers tomorrow! You can watch from the balcony with Sansa. She likes to watch us, don’t you Sansa?”

A choked sound that was half a splutter and half a laugh clawed its way out of her throat. “You are nowhere near as good as King Stannis with a dagger, Rickon,” she scolded, hoping Manderly would not notice her blush. “Don’t boast.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Stannis’ neck redden to match her cheeks.

“Aye, I reckon the king has a few years of experience on you, my boy,” Lord Manderly chortled. “But of course I will come and watch you practise.” His expression was as genial as before, but there was a curious look in his eyes that Sansa did not like.

_He’s too observant._

She met Stannis’ eyes for a brief moment, wondering if he was thinking it too, but all she could see in his eyes was grief. Grief and... longing.

***

“Three more sunrises,” Sansa said, drawing idle circles on his bare chest with her finger. She was warm in his arms, and so wonderfully _present._ Each time he closed his eyes he tried to force himself to notice and remember every detail of how it felt to have her in his bed, so that when he began to sleep alone again, he might easily imagine that she was still with him.

“Yes,” he said, feeling as if Sansa was waiting for an answer. _Only three._

“Will you ride back to King’s Landing after we set sail?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll give Jon my love, won’t you? And Shireen?”

“Yes.”

Sansa blew out a loud breath. “Do you plan to use the rest of your vocabulary tonight?”

He glared at her. “Yes.”

She glared back for a moment, but then her lips twitched, and she laughed. “Good!”

When she fell silent, the silence felt familiar and companionable, like the silences they usually shared. But then she tensed in his arms and said, “I would have liked to say yes to your question, you know.”

His insides contracted. He knew exactly what she was referring to.

“If things were different I would have been honoured to be your wife, Stannis. You are exactly the sort of man my father would have wanted for me. A man like him: brave, honourable… _good._ ” Her breath hitched. “I would be so proud to stand beside you and vow to love you always.”

She was crying now, as if she had not been laughing a moment ago.

He didn’t know what to do when women cried. Especially when there was a lump in his throat that prevented him from speaking. So he did the only thing he could: he held her close and kissed her, getting his face wet with her tears.

“Can we… can we just not think about it? Can we just pretend that we have all the time in the world? That we do not have any duties and that I’m not leaving in three days?” Sansa asked after a while, hiccoughing slightly.

It seemed cruel to him that it was duty - of all things - that prevented them from having all that they dreamed of. Duty had always been a shelter; a port in a storm. Now it was his prison. And hers.

“If that is your wish,” he whispered, knowing that if he tried to speak at a normal volume his voice would break.

“It is. And I wish for you to make love to me,” she whispered back. “Please.”

He nodded.

They kissed almost the whole time, which was unusual. They kept their hands entwined, and their chests pressed together, and she wrapped her legs around him tightly. His thrusts were barely thrusts. It was more like he was rocking into her, gently, slowly… tirelessly.

 _I could probably do this until sunrise,_ he thought vaguely, slipping his tongue deeper between Sansa’s lips.

He was wrong, of course. His climax came less violently than it often did, but it came. Instead of feeling like an explosion, it felt like a gate within him had been opened, and his soul was flowing out like so much water.

They fell asleep almost as entwined as they had been while they had been making love, and when they woke up - as they always did, in time for Sansa to go back to her chambers - they were still wrapped tightly around each other.


	15. A Bath

On the first day after Manderly arrived there was much for Sansa to do. She decided not to watch Stannis and Rickon train with daggers in favour of planning the next few days with Talia. Her wardrobe would need to be laundered and carefully packed, and she needed to decide what to wear for the next two days and on the journey north. She also needed to make sure Rickon’s wardrobe was packed, and then the rest of their belongings. Certain things could be packed right away, but certain things would be in use until the last minute.

She didn’t see Stannis again until supper, and was shocked to see that he looked almost… _haggard._ As if he had aged several years in the course of one day. His appearance improved when he noticed her, but the knot in her stomach did not come undone until they were alone in his chambers much later.

Touching him, being near him... it made everything seem better somehow.

“I’m not as good and honourable as you think I am,” Stannis said suddenly. They had been speaking of the events of the day, catching one another up on what they had done while they had been apart. Stannis’ words therefore seemed to come out of nowhere. She blinked down at him, resisting the temptation to gape. She was sitting astride him, though they were not making love. She just liked the feeling of having his body between her thighs, and he seemed to enjoy the view. His hands were on her waist, his fingers alternately pressing into her naked skin and easing away. “I’ve done things your father would never have considered.”

“You don’t know that,” Sansa said, absently beginning to plait a section of her loose hair. “In the end his honour did not mean as much to him as his family did.” The old guilt returned as soon as she had spoken. _Did he admit to treason because of me? Might he have died with his honour intact if…_

If. 

“Some might think that neither honour nor family mean much to me,” Stannis said, gesturing at the her and them at himself with a bitter expression.

“My father brought a bastard home to my mother,” Sansa said, letting go of her half-finished plait. “Or have you forgotten where your good-son came from?”

Stannis scowled at her, but his hands were back at her waist, kneading the flesh at her waist pleasantly. “My point is that I have done worse things than betray the vows I made to my wife. I doubt your father would approve a match between us if he knew it all.”

“Well, since I was the one who practically had to beg you to betray your vows, I doubt my father would be impressed with me, either,” Sansa said with a sigh.

“Renly is dead because of my actions,” Stannis snapped, sitting up and pushing her from his lap. “And I considered -” he broke off, and took several deep breaths. “My brother may have brought his end on himself, but you have no idea how much blood there is on my hands.” He showed her his palms, staring at them as if they were indeed covered in blood.

“As far as I’m concerned, you have redeemed yourself a hundred times over,” Sansa said, covering his palms with her own hands and thinking of the War at the Wall. The white walkers. ”The horrors of the past should stay right there: in the _past._ ”

Stannis fell silent for a little while. “Do you really believe that?” he asked at length.

“Yes,” Sansa said, leaning in to give him a kiss. “I do.”

They both got on their backs, but Sansa was quick to turn to her side and press herself close, using Stannis’ chest as a pillow.

“Besides, Jon thinks you’re a good man, and your daughter does too. And Lord Seaworth,” Sansa said. “What do you think is more likely: that they’re all mistaken, or that they’re all in agreement about it because it’s the truth?”

When Sansa heard Stannis draw in a breath, clearly preparing to respond, she cut him off. “Don’t answer that.”

Stannis snapped his mouth shut with a click of his teeth.

For a long while there was no sound in the bedchamber but for the fire crackling in the hearth, and the occasional sound of their feet moving beneath the blankets.

“Only two sunrises to go,” she said at length.

Stannis answered her with a kiss, and they said nothing else coherent that night.

***

Their next-to-last sunrise together was possibly the most spectacular one Sansa had seen since she had arrived at Storm’s End. It was the dawn of her last full day with Stannis. Tomorrow she would leave with the tide. Did the sky know this? Was it trying to change her mind?

 _It’s been decided,_ she told the pink, purple, and orange clouds. _I must go._

“Your lord brother missed you yesterday morning. He wanted to show you how he has progressed with his daggers,” Stannis said, his arm looped around her waist. They were both facing the east, admiring the sea and the sky.

There was almost no wind at all, and it was already warm. It would be a hot day.

She leaned her head on Stannis’ shoulder. “I’ll come to the training yard later.”

“We’re not training with daggers today.”

“Still. I want to.”

They lapsed into silence.

“What are you going to do after you’re finished training?” she asked, wondering if it would be possible to see more of him today than she had yesterday.

“Bathe, eat, meet with Ser Gerald. I should probably speak to the master of horse as well…”

“Perhaps you will need to speak to me, too?” Sansa suggested, doing her best to keep her tone innocent.

“Actually, yes, it would seem strange if we did not meet in my solar before your departure. There are several things we should discuss.” Stannis sounded perfectly serious. “It’s too early to make any decisions, but Lord Stark will need to marry, and the next Lady of Winterfell will need to be carefully chosen.”

“Lord Tyrell has already suggested Margaery,” Sansa said, shaking her head. “I declined, of course. Politely.”

“He can’t seem to find her a husband her own age,” Stannis muttered. “He tried to offer her to me, too.”

“Margaery is nearer to you in age than I am,” Sansa pointed out, suppressing a smirk when Stannis reddened.

The good thing about having kept busy yesterday, was the fact that Sansa was fairly free to do as she pleased today. She was able to have an unhurried breakfast with Lord Manderly and catch up on some gossip. Apparently the story of Princess Shireen’s bedding ceremony had already inspired several bawdy songs. It did not surprise Sansa -- seeing Ghost and Shaggydog protect Shireen from the mob had been quite the sight. And Stannis’ smug expression when he had explained that it was perfectly just for the wolves to escort Shireen, seeing as all males of the court had that right, and the wolves were indeed male, had been quite amusing. Jon had been left to fend for himself, of course, but he had faced white walkers and worse. A few ladies in their cups could hardly have been a challenge.

 _The look on his face, though,_ Sansa thought, shaking her head and smiling.

Sansa and Lord Manderly went together to the balcony where Sansa liked to watch Stannis and the others do their training, still laughing over the song lyrics Manderly had just repeated for Sansa’s benefit. But when Sansa saw what was going on in the training yard, she stopped laughing.

The men were grappling. Practising hand-to-hand combat. And as it was already quite warm out, and the exercise must have warmed them further, a lot of them had removed their shirts; Stannis included.

He was in the middle of a fight with two men-at-arms Sansa did not know by name, and there was quite a lot of rippling muscle on display.

Manderly raised a brow at her, clearly having noticed the abrupt change of her mood. She blushed and tore her eyes away from Stannis’ sweaty chest. Honestly, she had seen it often enough. It was nothing that should fluster her.

“Rickon!” she shouted, searching for her brother. “Why aren’t you wearing your tunic?”

“ _Sansa,_ ” Rickon whined, sounding for all the world as if she had just embarrassed him greatly.

“He’s only doing what he sees the other men doing,” Manderly said, giving her a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “No harm will come to him.”

Sansa huffed out a breath, but decided to let the matter lie. She took a seat and spent quite a bit of time fussing with her skirts.

“He’s quite an impressive man, the king,” Manderly said conversationally when she finally dared to look back up, only to witness Stannis knocking the wind out of one of his opponents while the other was having absolutely no luck slowing him down. In fact, Stannis hardly seemed to notice that the was man trying to trip him. “I was already having trouble getting on my horse at his age!”

“He trains diligently,” Sansa said, trying to sound detached, but unable to keep her admiration from bleeding into her tone. She did not like wanton violence, but watching Stannis soundly defeat two opponents who were closer to her age than his was making her a touch breathless.

“Shame he’s married to that frigid Florent woman,” Manderly said, a knowing look in his eyes.

“I would not count it a shame at all, my lord,” Sansa said, forcing herself to look away from Stannis so that she might make her voice appropriately cool. “After all, the queen gave King Stannis his heir, and my brother his wife.”

“True,” Manderly conceded. “Never saw a happier man than your brother Jon at his wedding!”

“He and the princess are well suited,” Sansa said, allowing some warmth back into her voice.

“Mm, there’s something poetic about Baratheons and Starks,” Manderly said, smirking, “I don’t know what it is exactly, but there’s something there…”

“If you are speaking of my Aunt Lyanna -”

“I’m only saying, Robert’s rebellion began because Prince Rhaegar abducted Lyanna Stark, and there has been trouble ever since. Until now. Until King Stannis took the throne. It seems poetic to secure the future of the Baratheon line by wedding the Starks. It is as if everything has been set to rights.”

Sansa glanced quickly at Stannis and felt herself blush again. “I suppose.”

Manderly didn’t say anything else about Baratheons and Starks after that, for which Sansa was grateful. She was even more grateful when he got to his feet, complained about the warm weather, and headed back inside the castle.

It was much nicer to watch Stannis without Manderly around to… notice things.

The heat was quite stifling by the time Stannis finally decided to head inside, and Sansa felt sure, in the years to come, that the strength of the southron sun had been to blame for her next decision.

Proper northern ladies did not attempt to _spy_ on men as they took baths. But Stannis was not just any man. He was her lover. And he had never said she couldn’t use the secret passageway that led to his rooms during the day. It wasn’t her fault that she was forced to wait, looking through a tiny sliver in the secret doorway, until his squire and the servants that were bringing the bathtub and the water were gone, and that Stannis apparently did not feel entirely shy about stripping off while the servants were still there.

Finally Stannis was in the bath, and the last servant finished gathering Stannis’ dirty laundry and left.

Sansa would have revealed herself right then and there if Stannis hadn’t let out a spine-tingling groan of pleasure, tilted his head back to reveal is throat, and closed his eyes. He looked so… relaxed. Should she really bother him?

Feeling uncertain, Sansa shifted quietly from one foot to the other, wondering whether she shouldn’t just go.

Stannis took his arms off the edge of the tub and lowered them in. Almost as soon as the water touched them, however, he let out a hiss of pain and a muttered oath.

 _He’s hurt,_ Sansa realised, taking an involuntary step forward, and widening the gap she was looking through a bit more.

There was _blood._ How had she missed it before?

Without thinking, Sansa burst into the room, determined to assess Stannis’ injury properly.

Stannis made a startled sound and flailed about in the water, splashing her with a liberal amount of it. She gasped in shock.

“Sansa?” Stannis asked, settling down and staring at her with wide eyes. “What are you -”

“I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, looking back and forth between him and her wet dress. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” They stared at each other for a moment, and once the shock wore off, Sansa couldn’t help herself. She started to laugh. “You - you splashed my dress,” she giggled.

“What are you doing here?” Stannis asked, frowning at her. He didn’t seem upset or angry, but he wasn’t amused, either.

“I just wanted to see you,” Sansa said, having regained control of herself. “I wasn’t going to burst in here like this, but I saw that you’re bleeding… are you well?”

“It’s only a scratch,” Stannis said, waving a hand dismissively. Then he frowned more deeply. “You wanted to see me… in the bath?”

Sansa blushed and shrugged. She felt like time had somehow been rewound, and that she was a carefree child in Winterfell again, running around with Jeyne, laughing until her tummy ached, teasing Arya, tattling on Robb and Jon, getting playfully scolded by the kitchen maids for stealing lemon cakes...

“Maybe I wanted to join you?” she suggested, her heart bursting with too many emotions.

Stannis’ eyes darkened. “By all means,” he murmured, raising a brow.

Heart pounding, Sansa stripped off every single article of clothing, making sure to spread her gown out so that it might have a chance to dry out a bit before the time came to put it back on.

The tub wasn’t big, so it was a very tight squeeze with Stannis’ large frame already taking up most of the space. But Sansa did not mind straddling his thighs and pressing her chest to his, and Stannis seemed to welcome the contact, though he winced when she bumped into the scratch on his arm.

“Are you sure you don’t want the maester to take a look at this?”

Stannis snorted. “It’s barely bleeding. I’ve received deeper wounds from a cat’s claw.”

Sansa bent her head and kissed the wound. “There,” she said, smiling at him. “All better.”

He raised both brows incredulously, but his lips twitched with amusement.

“When did you have a cat?” she asked, kissing his neck next.

“I’ve never kept one as a pet,” Stannis said, stroking her back idly, “but there are always mousers around. When I was a child I had a few run-ins with them.”

“Oh?” She let her hand trail down to find his manhood under the water. He was wonderfully hard, and it would probably be very easy to shift herself forward and take him inside. Would the water make it easy for him to slip inside? Would it feel different? Better? Worse? Touching Stannis beneath the water certainly felt different.

Stannis groaned. “Yes. Once I found a queen and her catlings hidden away. I decided to take a closer look at one of the little ones, and its mother objected. Quite forcefully.”

Sansa was still stroking him and trying to figure out how to execute her plan to get him inside her, but the story of a boy Stannis trying to steal a kitten from its mother and getting scratched for his trouble made her pause and let out a quiet noise of delight. “Really?”

“Yes. Never liked cats very much after that,” Stannis confessed, his voice a little strained.

There was a knock at the door. A voice carried through the wood, nervous and young. “Your Grace?”

Sansa froze and shot Stannis a panicked look. She calmed somewhat when she saw that Stannis did not look concerned. Disgruntled, yes, but not concerned.

“It’s just my squire,” he muttered. Then, in a louder of tone of voice: “Come back in half an hour.”

“A rider from King’s Landing has just arrived. He says he has an urgent message, Your Grace. He says he was instructed to give it to you with all due haste. On Princess Shireen’s orders,” the squire’s voice said, a little muffled by the door.

“Up,” Stannis ordered, looking worried. Sansa hurried to comply. In a rush, Stannis got out of the tub too, wrapped her dripping body in his own robe, and sent her into the secret passageway holding a bundle of clothes in her arms. Her gown was still a bit damp.

“I’ll see you in my solar after luncheon,” he said, a distracted, harried expression on his face. He was naked, very wet, and his manhood was still jutting out prominently, but he didn’t pay it any mind.

She nodded, unable to find her voice with him standing in front of her like that, and hoped that the message from Shireen was not full of ill tidings.


	16. The King's Solar

_Dear Father,_

_The maester says it’s far too early to speak of it, or even to be sure, but I wanted you to be among the first to know: I may be with child. Do not rush back to King’s Landing on my account, however. I know how much you love Storm’s End. Jon and I have quite enjoyed the challenge of serving on the small council in your stead and assisting Davos. Jon is a natural leader, but he insists that he has learned quite a bit ever since you left. He sends his regards, wondering how you manage to have any free time at all, and how you refrain from strangling people on a daily basis._

_Enjoy the Storm’s End sunrises, Father._

_Your loving daughter,_  
_Shireen._

Stannis smiled as he read the letter from his daughter for what had to be the tenth time. _A child? So soon? Can it truly be?_

Was he to be a grandfather? The thought caused his stomach to swoop and his head to feel curiously light. 

Luncheon went by without him taking much notice of what he was eating. All he had wanted to do was go back to his solar, and keep reading his daughter’s letter again and again.

Now that he was back, the letter in his hands, his thoughts whirled away from him, zooming from subject to subject.

Would his first grandchild be a grandson or a granddaughter? Would he be allowed to hold him or her? Surely Shireen would need plenty of rest after the ordeal of the birth, and Jon would want to support Shireen and be there for her in her time of need. There would be nurses of course, the best in the Seven Kingdoms, but as king - as _Grandfather_ \- surely he would be permitted to hold the infant?

 _I will not make more children of my own,_ Stannis thought, his heart constricting for a moment, _but my blood will flow through the veins of my daughter’s children._

In a way, he could be more certain of that than if Shireen had been a man. With a daughter that so clearly resembled him, he could know for sure that a child born of her body would be of his line. A son might have married someone as duplicitous as Cersei Lannister. A son might have been cuckolded as Robert had been.

 _Passing family names from mother to child would be the more reliable way of keeping track of a lineage,_ Stannis thought idly to himself, wondering as he did whether Shireen’s children would look more like Starks or Baratheons.

_The children are sure to be dark of hair, at least…_

“What are you thinking about?” a familiar voice asked, carrying over from the doorway.

Stannis looked up from his letter, pleased to see that Sansa had let herself in. He did not mind her doing it, but he would prefer if she did not surprise him in the bath as she had done this morning.

Well, in truth, he had not really minded that much either, once the shock had worn off. It had been unfortunate that they had been interrupted when they had been, however. The arousal that Sansa had stirred up had yet to be satisfied, and though it had retreated, it was still there -- just beneath the surface.

“Whether my daughter’s children will have the Stark look,” Stannis said, rising from his seat and pulling out a chair for Sansa. She smiled at him as she took a seat, her eyes becoming very bright.

“Shireen is with child?”

“It’s early days yet,” Stannis said, returning to his own seat and picking the letter back up. “But yes, perhaps.” He handed Sansa the letter for her to read.

A squeal of excitement and joy erupted from Sansa’s lips, and her eyes brightened further as she read the letter for herself. “How wonderful!”

“It’s too early to celebrate,” Stannis said, trying to keep both feet on the ground. “She might bleed it out. Or the Maester might be mistaken.”

“You don’t fool me,” Sansa said, shaking her head and smiling. “You already admitted that you were wondering what the child will look like.”

He crossed his arms. “I never said I was thinking of what _this_ child might look like. I merely wondered whether the children, when and if they come, will have the Stark or the Baratheon look.”

“Who can say? But they will be lucky if they inherit your eyes,” Sansa said, her expression softening. “They are a stunning colour. Shireen was lucky to get them.”

Stannis cleared his throat. Sansa’s compliment seemed sincere. And he could not deflect it without insulting his daughter’s eyes, too. Thankfully, he remembered that he had summoned Sansa to his solar for a reason. They had much to discuss.

“How many offers of marriage has Lord Stark had?”

Sansa straightened in her chair, and her whole demeanour changed, becoming more business-like. The Lady of Winterfell sat before him now, not his inappropriately young mistress.

“This year?” she sighed, raising a brow. “Let’s just say there have been many. Some of them have been quite absurd, but a few we have answered. We have made no promises, however.”

“Do you intend form a stronger alliance with a northern house, or do you look to the south?”

“As Jon has now been legitimised and wed to the crown princess, I believe it might be prudent to wed Rickon to a northern lady. My grandfather raised many eyebrows when he betrothed Brandon Stark to my lady mother. Choosing a northern bride would serve to appease many northern lords with long memories.” Sansa paused for a moment, and searched Stannis’ face. He did his best to look attentive. “Additionally, I think we should offer to foster an Umber or a Glover of a suitable age, though I have yet to discuss the matter with Howland,” Sansa continued, apparently satisfied that Stannis was paying close attention. “Lord Davos is sending his son Steffon to Winterfell, and though I approve of Rickon’s friendship with him, it is important for him to make friends with northern boys his own age as well.”

Stannis nodded. He liked seeing Sansa in this role. She was intelligent and confident, and seemed older than her years. As much as he enjoyed it when she was carefree and full of laughter - like she had been when he had inadvertently splashed her gown with his bathwater - he could not help but be even more attracted to her now, like this.

It was all too easy to imagine her with a crown on her head: dignified and beautiful, wise and just.

Sansa met his eyes for a long time, looking calm and unconcerned. But eventually Stannis noticed that she had started to blush. He realised that he had been staring at her in complete silence for much longer than necessary.

“Yes,” he said, trying to recall what Sansa had been saying. “It sounds as if you have the situation well in hand.”

Sansa smiled and inclined her head. Her cheeks were still rosy.

_By the gods, she is beautiful._

The arousal that had been simmering beneath the surface ever since his bath returned with great force. He swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Ser Andrew stood right outside the solar door. The man knew it was Sansa who was inside with him. Stannis could not afford to touch her.

“What are you thinking about?” Sansa asked, her voice a whisper.

“You,” he answered, keeping it simple. If he told her more, he would want to act out his thoughts.

_I mustn’t._

Besides, there was no bed.

_I have taken her up against a wall before. And she was ready to couple with me in the bath. Does it really matter that there is no bed?_

“I’m thinking about you, too,” Sansa said, her eyes darkening and becoming heavy-lidded. Those were her bedroom eyes. _Gods._

“We should, the north, there is - ah - much to discuss,” Stannis said, stumbling over his own words and hardly paying attention to what he was saying.

Sansa rose from her seat and walked around to his side of the desk. Somehow his body decided it would be a good idea to scoot his chair back and give her space to stand between him and the large redwood table. He widened the gap between his legs so that she might fit herself there. She looked down at his breeches and smiled when she saw the bulge her presence had created.

“I think you should stand up,” she whispered, her eyes still seductive.

He did it without a second thought. _Ser Andrew. Outside. Don’t forget._ “We mustn’t,” he muttered as Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck.

They kissed very quietly, and Stannis had never quite felt as aware of any door being unbarred as he did now. Soon Sansa was opening up to him, inviting his tongue inside by curling her own, and dragging her nails up and down along the back of his head, sending shivers down his spine.

She was on his desk then, sitting with her thighs apart, inviting him to stand between them and press his groin against her right where he wanted to. Kissing and rubbing against her, her hands stroking him and egging him on, sent more and more shivers through him. It was almost as if he were shaking from the cold of a winter storm, and yet his blood felt hotter than the Dornish sun.

“Take me,” Sansa whispered, wrapping her legs and her skirts around him and trapping him in place. “Please…”

“Ser Andrew,” Stannis said, trying to stop his hands from wandering. “He’ll hear. He knows it’s you in here.”

“I can be quiet.”

Stannis raised a sceptical brow.

Sansa blew out an irritated breath, unlocked her legs - allowing him to take a step back - and jumped down off his desk.

 _She has seen sense._ He knew he should be relieved, but it was disappointment that flooded his heart.

“Good, you should probably sit down. There are things we have yet to discuss…” Stannis trailed off when he realised Sansa was not listening to him. Instead she had turned around to face his desk, showing him her back. She pulled her hair over one shoulder, exposing the laces of her gown.

“Undo the laces,” she said, turning her head to give him a challenging look. “I promise I’ll be quiet.”

He swallowed. Hope surged within him, all traces of disappointment abandoning him. _But this is a bad idea,_ the sensible part of him admonished. “Are you certain -”

“Stannis, _please._ ”

He sucked in a loud breath, and began to do as she bid. His hands shook as he tugged at her gown’s fastenings, and his heart was racing as if he were about to meet a white walker in the field. His upper lip felt sweaty. His palms felt sweaty.

The gown fell down to the floor, pooling around Sansa’s feet. He expected her to turn around again, but she didn’t. She pulled her shift up, exposing her smallclothes. And then she _bent over the desk._

Stannis knew it was possible for a man to take a woman like a stallion would mount a mare, but he had never considered doing such a thing. A highborn lady deserved more respect than that, and Stannis would never lie with a commoner or a whore.

As he stood and gaped at the scene in front of him, Sansa wriggled her bottom. “Are you just standing there and staring?” she asked, sounding a little exasperated.

He cleared his throat. What was he supposed to do with this? He was aroused beyond all reason, but he did not think a decent lord - a decent _king_ \- would ever entertain the notion of -

“ _Stannis._ ”

His hands sprang into action, fumbling with the laces of his breeches. He was breathing too fast, and it was making him a bit light headed. Or maybe it was just the sight of Sansa untying the bows that held her smallclothes in place - exposing herself completely - that was making him dizzy.

His cock free, Stannis paused. Did she mean for him to just… plunge straight in? _Surely not._

He decided to use his fingers first.

Sansa met his hesitant touch by spreading her thighs, pushing herself back on his hand, and breathing a soft sigh of pleasure.

She was as wet as she ever got, and Stannis got distracted for a moment, just enjoying the way his fingers slid and slipped over her soft folds. This was the softest part of her by far, and his cock twitched as he remembered how silky she felt on the inside, how smooth… how lovely…

Sansa gasped when he pushed a finger inside of her, needing to _feel it._

“Ssh,” he reminded her, glancing at the door. He felt her inner muscles clench around his finger, and almost had to shush himself, too.

“Stannis, I need you,” Sansa whispered, spreading her thighs still more and moving back and forth on his finger suggestively.

He retracted his hand and grasped his cock, wiping the wetness that still clung to his finger off on it. Hurriedly he guided the head to her entrance, rubbing it gently against her and getting more of her moisture on himself.

She moaned quietly, but the sound still sounded extremely loud to the part of him that glanced anxiously at the unbarred door.

“You have to be quiet,” he whispered, biting his own tongue when Sansa pushed her arse out and caused his cock to sink a little ways into her. 

She made another little noise of pleasure.

“Sansa, I’m sorry,” he said, feeling his stomach flip over at what he was about to do, “but I don’t think you realise how loud you’re being.”

He covered her mouth with his hand and plunged the rest of the way inside, sheathing himself to the hilt.

This time Sansa’s moan was sufficiently muffled, and it was good that he didn’t have to focus on whether she was being too loud; he was struggling to keep himself quiet.

 _I will just have to make this quick,_ he decided. The odds of getting caught would increase if he took too long.

He began to move, and immediately realised that it would be embarrassingly easy to make this quick. Something about entering her at this angle felt more… _intense._ There was more pressure, and the friction along his shaft was making him clench his buttocks and thrust harder without meaning to. Additionally, though he much preferred the view when Sansa rode on top of him, the sight of his hand covering her mouth was causing his heart to skip beats.

With pleasure coiling powerfully at the base of his spine and making his skin tingle all over, it was harder than he had expected to keep silent. He was clenching his jaw shut as tightly as he could, but every breath he took through his nose sounded absurdly loud to his ears.

But louder than his laboured breathing, and louder than Sansa’s muffled moans, were the sounds of their bodies meeting. The smacks weren’t as terribly noisy as they tended to be when they were both naked; his breeches prevented too much of his skin coming into contact with Sansa’s. But it was still loud enough to make Stannis worry about the what Ser Andrew might be hearing through the door.

 _Quickly, quickly,_ he thought to himself, speeding up and squeezing his eyes shut at the increase in pleasure. It wasn’t just the faster pace that felt good, however. Sansa’s inner muscles had started to clamp down on him the way they did when she peaked, and it was making him wish very fervently that they were somewhere private. He wanted to groan. He want to to tell her how good this felt, how much he loved her, and how badly he wanted to try this again. Judging by the way Sansa was moaning continuously into his hand she was feeling something similar.

When she tightened up further all coherent thoughts were wiped from his mind. For the next minute his world became narrow and focused. He grasped Sansa’s shoulder with the hand that wasn’t busy muffling her cries, and started to thrust with the sort of power and speed he would never have been capable of if he didn’t have both feet planted firmly on the floor. This was more leverage than he had ever had, and if it weren’t for the way Sansa’s body seemed to welcome him completely, he would have worried that the force of his thrusts might be damaging her.

A choked sound tore its way out of his throat when his climax hit him: more explosive than wildfire, and much _much_ wilder.

He staggered back after resting for a very short time, sitting down with his breeches open, his cock half hard and wet with Sansa’s arousal and his own seed. From his seat he had a very direct view of Sansa’s most private places, and he could not tear his eyes away. He had often examined her quite closely when he had pleasured her with his mouth. He enjoyed watching the way she changed with her arousal. Before he touched her her folds looked more inconspicuous. Pale pink. Everything seemed more tucked away and hidden. But when he touched her - or kissed her - the colour of her flesh would change. She reddened, and the lips around her entrance became swollen -- just like the lips of her face when he kissed her for too long. If he did his job properly she would also glisten with moisture. 

Right now she was as swollen and red and _wet_. He could even see some of his seed trickling out.

But the view was gone before he had a chance to say anything.

“I wish we had tried that before,” Sansa said, looking a little unsteady on her feet as she stood up and pushed her shift down to cover herself. Her face was flushed and her eyes were very bright. “It was even more thrilling than I imagined.”

She bent to pick her gown up from the floor, and shook it out. A small frown appeared, and she tutted under her breath.

Stannis knew he should probably tuck himself away and do up his laces, but he didn’t feel like it. His mind was too busy processing the fact that Sansa imagined such acts. Imagined them to be _thrilling._

How was he supposed to go on with his day now that he knew this?

Sansa put her gown back on and turned to show Stannis her back. “Could you?”

He stood up to do as she asked. His fingers felt very clumsy - almost as if he were wearing thick leather gloves - but he managed close the gown for her. He kissed her neck when he finished, lingering for much longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” Sansa said, turning around and giving him a soft look.

Heat surged through him, making him wish he could claim her again. Making him wish he could take her to bed and make love to her and _fuck_ her and lose himself utterly with her.

He glared at the door. 

It was not right that they should cower in here, hiding away. He should be able to march Sansa to his bedchamber without worrying about who might see them. They should be able to spend the rest of the day resting and holding each other and talking and not talking. They should be able to do whatever they wished whenever they wished it!

He opened his mouth, the reckless urge to propose to her again, to _beg_ her to reconsider, boiling on his tongue. She’d told him that she wanted to say yes. She did not object to the idea of being his wife -- she _desired_ it. They could have a long betrothal. He would not stop her from spending a few more years in Winterfell with her brother. And who was to say that she’d even be able to give him sons? Selyse hadn’t been able to. Shireen’s position as his heir might never be threatened at all.

Before he managed to put his frantic thoughts into words, Sansa gave him a kind smile. Kind, but sad. She shook her head almost imperceptibly.

Stannis closed his mouth, his temporary madness draining away as quickly as it had come. _We’ve been through this,_ he told himself, clenching his jaw. _Enough._

Sansa took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and swept to her seat. With her hands clasped tightly together in her lap, she regarded him politely. “We still have a few things to discuss.”

“Do we?” He sighed, wondering how she could be so wanton one minute, and so proper the next.

“Yes. We never finished discussing the matter of Princess Shireen’s dowry.”

He stared at her for a moment, not quite able to read her courteous expression. “What?”

“Your daughter’s dowry,” Sansa repeated, her tone becoming a little too innocent. “I know you’re a practical man, so I do not think I shall ask for diamonds, sapphires, Myrish lace, or other such frippery. But I think some beneficial trade contracts between the crownlands and the north might be in order.”

Stannis hurriedly did up the laces of his breeches and tried to force himself to focus. Was she really bringing this up? _Now?_

“There are already very beneficial trade contracts -”

“We could do with more fresh fruit,” Sansa said, cutting him off. “The prices are really not reasonable as things stand.” A bright gleam had appeared in her eyes.

Stannis did not know whether to be amused or outraged.

“Fruit is a luxury,” Stannis said slowly, examining Sansa’s face. “And keeping it fresh on the journey is not easy.”

“You mean it’s not cheap,” Sansa countered, raising a brow. There was a whisper of a smile on her lips that made Stannis’ lips quirk in response. 

They discussed the matter at length, and eventually Stannis agreed that for the next three years, the Crown would foot the bill for at least one shipment of fresh fruit from the Reach or Dorne each month.

When they rose from their seats, Sansa was smiling a satisfied smile. “I look forward to being able to enjoy lemon cakes more frequently when I return home.”

“Did you seduce me just so you could have lemoncakes more often?” Stannis asked, huffing out an irritated breath.

“Of course not,” Sansa said loftily. “I approved of Jon and Princess Shireen’s marriage so that I could have lemoncakes more often.”

He laughed, and the sound seemed to startle Sansa for a moment. But then she gave him a wide, sincere smile that shone with happiness.

She had never looked more beautiful.

He walked her to the door, opened it for her, and did his best to ignore Ser Andrew. “I’ll see you at supper, my lady,” he said, trying to disguise the evidence of his amusement, and sound stiff and disinterested.

“I look forward to it, Your Grace,” Sansa said and curtseyed, her courtesies flowing forth effortlessly.

He stood still and watched as she walked away, unable to go back to his seat while he could still see her. When she turned a corner and disappeared from view, he gave a silent sigh and made to retreat back to his desk. But Andrew caught his eye before he managed it. The man’s ears were distinctly red, and he was giving Stannis a very curious look.

Stannis glared at him and slammed the door, hoping to convey a clear message. _You heard nothing. You saw nothing._

He paced around his solar for a little while, imagining - not for the first time - all the worst consequences of his affair with Sansa becoming public knowledge, alternately grinding his teeth and muttering curses under his breath.

_I should not have given in. I should have waited until tonight._

Eventually he sat down at his desk with a loud sigh, closing his eyes and trying to force himself to calm down.

 _It’s done. Andrew either heard us or he didn’t._ Hopefully the man was intelligent enough to figure out that if Stannis heard any gossip start to spread, he would know _exactly_ whom to blame.

For a satisfying minute he entertained a fantasy of the different punishments he might devise.

When he opened his eyes he noticed something strange. There was a pale bundle on the floor by his desk. 

_Ribbons?_

Frowning, he bent to pick it up. As soon as his hand touched the silk he realised what it was.

_Sansa’s smallclothes._

He almost dropped them. _Did she forget them? Or leave them on purpose?_

Sansa was not the sort of woman who made careless mistakes, so Stannis was inclined to think she had left them for him deliberately.

_A gift?_

He closed his hand, tightening his hold on the soft fabric, his thoughts straying towards the pouch he had hidden in his rooms.

Feeling his heart speed up, Stannis made a decision he had been struggling to make ever since the ride to the Sapphire Isles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give [AllTheDances](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheDances/pseuds/AllTheDances) a shout-out for inspiring me to write that bit with Sansa's little trick of leaving her panties behind. I hope this can be considered a loving homage to [Pride and Pack](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5240492) rather than filthy dirty stealing. (If you haven't read Pride and Pack, you totally should. It's amazing. You will not regret it.)


	17. Farewell

Sansa did not want to think about the fact that tonight would be her last night with Stannis. She did not want to think about the fact that they would only share one more sunrise. She did not want to think at all.

All she wanted to do was be held.

“We were reckless today,” Stannis said as he welcomed her to his bed, shifting to make room for her beside him. “I think Ser Andrew must have heard us.”

“Talia hasn’t heard any fresh gossip,” Sansa said, hoping to put Stannis at ease. Honestly, they had barely made any noise at all. Especially since he had covered her mouth with his hand nearly the whole time. She squeezed her thighs together at the memory. It really was a shame they hadn’t dared to be that reckless before. Everything about it had been a thrill.

Stannis hummed, not sounding convinced. But he did not argue the matter further.

Sansa snuggled up to him, enjoying the feeling of skin against skin, and wondered whether he had found the gift she had left for him. She hoped so. It would have been awkward if he had left it there for a maid to find. She blushed at the thought and decided not to ask.

“Did you like it?” she asked instead, her heart speeding up. It was not beating at nearly the speed it had during their interlude in the solar. Undressing and then bending over his desk had probably been the most daring, erotic thing she had ever done, and probably the most daring thing she would _ever_ do with a man.

“The reckless behaviour?” Stannis asked, his tone strict and full of disapproval.

Sansa smiled, safe in the knowledge that Stannis wouldn’t see. “How it felt.”

He was silent for several beats. “I - I suppose.”

She suppressed a laugh. “You _suppose?_ ”

Stannis sighed, sounding exaggeratedly put-upon. “Yes. I liked it.” He paused. “Did you?”

“Mmm, very much.” It wasn’t a lie. She hadn’t really liked the way the desk had felt beneath her - hard and uncomfortable - but she had loved the way everything else had felt. It had surprised her how good the angle had been, and how pleasurable the hard, fast pace Stannis had set had felt. She really hadn’t expected to peak, but it had been easy to get there with Stannis brushing up against a wonderful spot inside of her in each stroke.

“You’re certain?” Stannis sounded both worried and relieved. “I didn’t hurt you?”

“No, not at all. I meant what I said earlier. I wish we had tried it before. I would have liked to do it like that more than once.”

Judging by the way he hardened against her thigh, there was at least one part of him that agreed.

Excitement and anticipation fluttered in the pit of her stomach. “Do you want to try it again? Here?”

“I don’t know,” Stannis said, sounding strangely hesitant. It was always strange to hear him sound uncertain of anything. “I like seeing your face.”

Something inside her felt as if it had melted. She smiled into the crook of his neck and did her best to wriggle closer to him, even though she was already half on top of him.

“And I like having you close,” he added, his voice subdued.

She raised her head to look at him, thinking back to the moment in his solar when she had been almost certain that he had meant to ask her to wed him again. His eyes weren’t blazing now the way they had then, but his love for her was painfully apparent. “And I like being close,” she whispered. _I’d like to be close to you always._

They stared at each other in silence, communicating more effectively with their eyes than they ever managed to do with their words.

“I don’t want to sleep tonight,” she sighed after a while, resting her head against his shoulder. “I don’t want to waste any time.”

“We have long journeys ahead,” Stannis said, his hand going to her hair and carding through it gently.

“I don’t care. We might never see each other again. Not like this.”

He buried his hand in her hair and clutched at her, inhaling sharply as if she had just stabbed him. “You don’t know that. We could return here. In a few years perhaps.”

Sansa closed her eyes and imagined it. Stealing another couple of months for herself. For him. For _them._

“Maybe,” she said, unable to crush the dream of it. “But that would still be a long time from now.”

Stannis kissed her, and she let herself be swept away. She wished she could somehow slow the moment down to catalogue and measure each little part of what it felt like so that she would be able to kiss him in her mind whenever she wanted, but each kiss he had ever given her was different. The memory of one kiss - no matter how detailed - would never do a real kiss justice.

“Please stay awake with me,” she said when they finally broke apart, breathing hard.

“What do you propose we do instead of sleep?” Stannis asked, his eyes fixed on hers.

“Everything,” she decided, smiling when Stannis’ face reddened.

“Everything?”

She nodded and started to make her way down his body, determined to kiss him _there_ again. Stannis went rigid, but he did not protest.

The next sounds he made were sounds of pleasure.

***

Watching the golden sunrise after staying awake the whole night through felt very different than waking up early to see it. Stannis’ head felt oddly fuzzy -- as if a bird had stuffed it full of down and laid a few eggs in there. His eyes were tired.

It didn’t matter to him, however. He had Sansa in his arms, and he felt as if they’d used their last remaining hours wisely. They’d made love in every way they knew how, and in between, when they had been resting, they had talked.

Stannis liked talking to Sansa. He didn’t feel as if he had to pretend with her. Not that he ever pretended to be anyone he wasn’t. He was no mummer. But with his men he was always very aware of his role as their liege. He was always aware that when he did anything - when he _said_ anything - he was setting an example, and that it needed to be an example of _strength_. He could not afford to be open with his emotions like a woman. There was a time and a place for such things.

When he was alone with Sansa, it was always the right time. The right place. She listened to him without judgment. She accepted him even though she knew he had done terrible things in the past.

True, he had not told her what he had almost considered doing to Shireen at the Wall, but Shireen had forgiven him that. Most of his guilt about the matter had been laid to rest when his daughter had taken his hands in hers and told him that she was _proud_ to call him Father, though some yet lingered. There would always exist a trace of guilt and shame within him for his moment of doubt.

_As it should._

He wondered whether Shireen would still be proud of him if she found out how he had spent his time in Storm’s End.

 _I told her Just King Stannis isn’t as admirable as people think he is,_ he thought to himself, bitterness welling up inside him. _I told her._

“Stannis,” Sansa whispered, touching his cheek. “You’re so far away. Come back to me.”

Stannis kissed her and tried to clear his tired mind, but one thought refused to disappear. _Sansa believes me to be a good man despite all the things that I’ve done. That has to be worth something._ When their lips parted he rested his forehead against hers, keeping his eyes closed.

 _It’s time,_ he thought, his mind flashing back to Shireen’s wedding day, and the moment they had shared before the ceremony. “I - there’s something I should like to give you,” Stannis said, lifting his head up and watching for Sansa’s reaction. His heart began to race when he saw the spark of curiosity in her eyes.

“You have given me more than enough, Stannis,” Sansa said, her lips forming a sweet smile. “You have given me so many wonderful memories.”

He kissed her for that, reaching for the silk pouch he had tied to his sword belt as he did. When they broke apart he reached for her hand and guided it until she was holding her palm up. He emptied the pouch into her hand.

“Oh,” Sansa whispered, her eyes widening.

“It is one of a pair,” Stannis said, picking the gold bracelet up from Sansa’s palm, unclasping it, and fixing it to her right wrist. Several sapphires glinted in the early morning light. “The pair matches a pendant I gave Shireen on her wedding day. I intend to give the other bracelet to her on her next nameday.”

“You should give her both bracelets,” Sansa said, blinking rapidly. “She told me the pendant belonged to your mother. I can’t - I can’t accept this Stannis. It’s too much.”

“Accept it. It’s already yours. I will not take it back.” He met her eyes steadily, his jaw set.

“But… what will I say? Lord Manderly is bound to notice this. He’ll see that it matches Shireen’s pendant. He’ll -”

“You are Shireen’s good-sister. Why shouldn’t she gift you with a keepsake?” Stannis said, the necessity of the lie stinging his pride.

Sansa drew in a sharp breath. She was still blinking very fast. “Thank you,” she then whispered. “It’s - it’s so beautiful. I will treasure it.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself close, embracing him tenderly. He held her in turn, unable to comprehend the fact that soon she would be gone. She fit so perfectly against him that it seemed unnatural for her to be anywhere else.

The kiss that followed was almost more than Stannis could bear. Though it was a more refined kiss than the first one they had shared, Stannis felt the same desperation he had felt then, the same need to experience all that she offered.

Only the sharp pain in his heart was different.

He did not let her go when their lips parted, and continued to hold her close, his nose buried in her hair, his eyes shut. He felt her breathing slow and even out.

“Listen,” Sansa said after a while, a whisper of a smile in her voice.

Stannis listened. At first he only heard the familiar sound of the ocean waves hitting the shore, the wind: trying and failing to catch a hold of the perfectly smooth castle walls, and the ceaseless cries of the seabirds all around. But after a little while he heard another sound.

He opened his eyes and looked at Sansa. “Someone is singing.”

“It’s your favourite, isn’t it?” Sansa said, her tone a little teasing.

He glared at her. “You know it isn’t.”

Sansa closed her eyes and concentrated. Then, in her high clear voice, she started to sing along with the faint voice that was drifting up from below.

“Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair! The maid with honey in her hair!” Sansa sang, smiling widely.

Stannis crossed his arms and rolled his eyes as Sansa continued to sing of the bear and the maiden fair, determined not to let her see that he was amused. His scowl must not have been very potent however, as Sansa was not deterred. She grabbed his arms and tugged on him until he was persuaded to dance with her and soon she was laughing as much as she was singing.

“Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air! My bear! She sang. My bear so fair! And off they went, from here to there, the bear, the bear, and the maiden fair.”

With the song finished they kissed again, their dance slowing to a halt.

“Why don’t you like that song?” Sansa asked, looping her arms around his neck and hanging off him like young women so often did with their lovers.

“Robert liked it.”

Sansa gave him a sad smile and kissed him again. And then she kissed his nose. He narrowed his eyes at her. He was not a _child._

“ _Everyone_ likes it,” Sansa said. There were tears in her eyes again, and Stannis didn’t know why. All he knew was that seeing them made his lungs burn. “It’s all right to let yourself enjoy the things everyone enjoys sometimes.”

Stannis did not think she was talking about the song anymore.

Without thinking, he brought his hands up and pushed Sansa’s hair behind her ears, letting his thumbs linger on her cheeks to feel how soft her skin was. He brushed his lips against hers without turning it into a proper kiss.

“I know,” he said, his voice a low rasp.

A tear escaped one of Sansa’s eyes and made its way down her face. Stannis caught it with a thumb. 

“Promise me you’ll do something for yourself when you return to King’s Landing… at least once a week. Something you _enjoy._ ”

Stannis considered the request and thought of his time at the Wall. Watching Jon and Shireen dance around each other had been enjoyable, and the dinners they had shared had been good, too. With Jon, Shireen, and Davos with him in King’s Landing, he did not think it would be difficult to do as Sansa asked. But even if it became difficult, he was determined to try.

He nodded. “I promise.”

“I’ll miss you,” Sansa said, shedding more tears. Too many for him to catch.

They kissed again, perhaps for the last time, and Stannis felt his own face get wet.

In the distance the sun rose, painting the sky a soft golden hue.


	18. Epilogue: Sunset

At seventy-three years of age, King Stannis Baratheon was as formidable as many men half his age. Perhaps he could not keep up with his good-son the way he had been able to in the past, but Ser Jon Stark was an exceptionally skilled fighter.

It therefore came as quite the surprise when the king failed to show up in the training yard of the Red Keep one mild spring morning.

Jon took it upon himself to search for the king, worrying that he might have fallen ill. It took more than an hour of searching, but finally he was successful.

“You’re sure he’s there?” Jon asked, unsure whether to trust Davos’ word. The old Hand looked immensely distracted.

“Yes, yes, out there,” Davos said, pointing. There was a very peculiar gleam in the Lord Hand’s eyes. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have several letters to write.”

King Stannis was standing on a balcony in the newly rebuilt Tower of the Hand, looking over the city and the Blackwater. There was a deep furrow between the King’s brows, and he did not look up when Jon joined him.

“Stannis? Is something wrong?”

“I’ve received a raven from Riverrun,” Stannis said, still looking towards the ocean. The sun had risen, but it was early yet, and the clouds above the bay were pink and orange.

“From Brynden and Sansa?” Jon frowned. “Are they well?”

Jon’s sister had managed Winterfell until Rickon had come into his own, but eventually she had married and moved away. Her uncle, Lord Edmure Tully, had not survived the war, and he had left no heir. The Blackwoods took Riverrun for their seat, and Sansa had married Brynden Blackwood, reigned as Lady of Riverrun, and given him two sons and two daughters. It had pleased the riverlords greatly when the match had been announced. Tully blood would continue to run through the veins of the Lords of Riverrun, they had said, nodding their heads. And Sansa was as Catelyn Tully reborn.

“From Sansa,” Stannis said slowly. “Her husband has perished in a hunting mishap. Thrown by his horse.”

Jon didn’t know what to say. His heart ached for Sansa, his nephews, nieces, and their children. “I should go to her,” he said at length, knowing that Sansa would be by his side in a heartbeat if he were to suffer such a loss.

“No need.”

 _No need?_ Jon took a step forward and opened his mouth to argue.

“I have summoned her to court,” Stannis went on, still staring at the ocean.

“Oh.” Jon frowned. “Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Such as?”

“Queen Selyse died three years ago.”

Jon blinked at Stannis, but Stannis had yet to so much as turn his head to acknowledge Jon’s presence, and did not see his confusion. _Does Stannis wish to commiserate with Sansa as they have now both lost the ones they were wed to?_

“I would take a new wife.”

Jon’s jaw dropped open. Of course that was when Stannis chose to look at him.

“Close your mouth, boy.”

Jon closed his mouth and gave Stannis an irritated look. _I’m four and fifty. Hardly a boy._

“I intend to wed your sister. Her eldest son has a wife and children of his own. He will manage Riverrun quite well without his mother to help him.”

“She can’t have more children,” Jon said. “She is one and fifty.”

Stannis gave him a withering look. “If it were my desire to have more children, I would not have waited until _now._ ”

Jon felt his cheeks warm. Stannis had a point. He shook his head, trying to clear it. It had been stupid to jump to conclusions. But why would Stannis want to marry if not to have children?

Memories, long buried, rose sluggishly to surface; Sansa, speaking to Stannis in Winterfell, persuading him to dance with Shireen; Stannis, dancing with Sansa at Jon’s wedding feast; the two months Stannis, Sansa, and Rickon had spent in Storm’s End; the sapphire bracelet that everyone said Shireen had given to Sansa, (everyone except Shireen, that was), and the rumours Jon had heard upon Stannis’ return about an affair with a chambermaid. Jon had always attributed Sansa and Stannis’ behavior to each other as basic politeness, for Sansa was always exceedingly kind and had the talent of bringing out the best in people. There had been nothing unseemly about the king inviting the Lord of Winterfell and his retinue to Storm’s End for a time, though looking back it had surprised Jon at how excited Sansa had been about the journey. As to Stannis’ affair… he was wise enough to never believe the rumors, as Stannis Baratheon was not and never would be a man to fuck chambermaids.

“It wasn’t a chambermaid,” he muttered out loud, the pieces all falling into place. He felt his eyes widen and his heart skipped a beat. “You were in love with her.” He paused and stared at Stannis, examining the familiar face of his good-father. His friend. “And you still are,” Jon said, his voice quiet. The world seemed to come to a standstill as the knowledge settled in Jon’s mind. “You’re in love with my _sister._ ”

Stannis nodded once.

Jon ran a hand through his hair. It was still dark, just as Shireen’s hair was still dark. But there were a few white strands here and there. Shireen liked them, calling them his Ghost hairs. Miraculously, Ghost was still alive and terrorising all those who dared to harm his pack.

“She’s younger than I am,” Jon said, blowing out a loud breath. “She’s only a little older than _Shireen._ ”

Stannis nodded again. There was not a trace of shame to be found in the lines of his face.

Jon rubbed his face and huffed out another breath. “Does she love you back?”

A hint of uncertainty broke through Stannis’ stoic expression. “She used to.” He looked back at the ocean. “In Storm’s End, she would watch the sunrise with me.”

 _But that was before she married Brynden,_ Jon surmised.

Jon was silent for a little, not quite believing all that Stannis was telling him. Stannis’ revelations didn’t horrify him, curiously enough. They simply surprised him. “Shireen has shown me the sunrises of Storm’s End. You were right about the sight.”

Stannis’ lips twitched. “Of course I was.”

There was another lull in their conversation. Jon listened to the sounds of the city, and enjoyed the quality of the air. The stench of King’s Landing had improved quite a bit ever since Stannis became king, but it was still not exactly _pleasant._ Being up here, high above the ground, was much better. All he could smell was the faint aroma of the sea.

“If you marry her you will be my good-father and my good-brother,” Jon said, smiling to himself.

Stannis huffed out a sound that might have been one of amusement.

Jon’s smile widened, and he clapped Stannis on the back. “I hope she accepts you as her husband.”

Stannis looked surprised for a moment, and then pleased. “Indeed?”

“Yes. But first I think you should join me in the training yard. I must assess whether you are capable of protecting her, old man.”

The fierce glare Jon’s words were met with caused him to burst into laughter.

***

“You look very handsome, Father,” Shireen said, trying to keep from smiling as she watched her father brush invisible lint from his velvet doublet and straighten his jeweled sword belt for the third time. Within moments they would enter the throne room and receive the party from Riverrun. Receive Sansa.

“Don’t be absurd,” Father muttered. She noticed that he stopped fidgeting, however.

“Are you excited to see her?” she asked, working hard to sound serious and respectful. It was difficult, and fondness bled into her voice despite her efforts.

Father pursed his lips. “Your crown is off centre.”

Shireen rolled her eyes, but let her father adjust the golden crown on her head. “It’s all right to be excited,” she said, shooting him an encouraging smile.

He gave a stiff nod, but said nothing. Shireen didn’t mind. She could tell that he was excited. Excited and nervous. She had no doubt she would be a frightful mess in his shoes.

_He loves her. He’s loved her for all these years._

When Jon had explained her father’s wish to marry Sansa, and hinted that they had become _close_ all those years ago when they had gone to Storm’s End after the wedding, a long-standing suspicion of Shireen’s had been confirmed.

 _”You mean they had an affair,”_ Shireen had said, laughing internally at the way her husband had blushed.

 _“I - I’m sure they did not - I mean, nothing inappropriate -”_ Jon had stammered, unable to meet her eyes.

_“Jon, I’m a grown woman. I know my parents did not love each other. It does not wound me to think my father might have found comfort, love even, in another lady’s bed. Especially since he never started a war by running off with a maiden promised to another.”_

In fact, it was heartening to Shireen to think he might have found love. She would never forget the description her mother had given of her parent’s wedding night, and now that she had been married to Jon for so many happy years, the pain of knowing what her father had missed out on was sharper than ever.

Jon had scrunched his face up. _“Yes, but I don’t like to think of it. She’s my_ sister _and he’s… he’s my good-father.”_

Shireen shook her head at the memory and focused on the present moment.

“Why didn’t you set Mother aside for her?” she asked, remembering that Sansa had been unwed at the time of the sojourn to Storm’s End. “The Small Council pressured you time and time again to set mother aside for a young maiden who could give you more children.”

 _Sons._ Shireen thought of Steffon and Jeor, a lump forming in her throat. Her sons had grown into fine men. _Daughters._ Argella’s laughter echoed in her mind, loud and beautiful; the best sound in the world.

Father stared at her, his expression a mixture of outrage and incredulity. “I made a vow to your mother, Shireen. And I had a fit heir. I still do.”

 _Father truly is an honorable man._ Something inside her chest seemed to tighten and loosen at once. Being Father’s heir meant a great deal to her. Being the crown princess was a part of her that she could hardly imagine being without. _So much of what father has done has been for_ my _sake. He’s sacrificed so much, more than I’ll probably ever know. I’m glad that now there’s nothing stopping him now from marrying the woman he loves._

Shireen took a step forward and wrapped her arms around her father’s neck. “I love you, Father.”

She heard him inhale sharply, and closed her eyes against the hot sting of tears when he returned the embrace.

They lingered that way for a long time, but finally parted when Jon arrived.

“I’m sorry I’m late. Is it time to go?”

Shireen looked at Father. He had gone pale, and she saw him swallow several times. She had never seen him look so nervous.

She smiled. “Yes, let’s go and make Sansa feel welcome.”

***

Stannis did not know how to begin. He and Sansa were finally face to face, alone in his solar with no one there to hear what they might say, or see what their faces might betray.

The rays of the afternoon sun lit the room through several large windows, casting shadows that had already lengthened since Sansa had arrived. The hearth was empty, and without a fire to spit and crackle the silence seemed strangely loud.

He studied her expression, hoping that she might give him some sort of sign, but she merely studied him in return, looking as calm and still as the surface of a lake. She had taken the seat he had indicated when she had arrived, and folded her hands in her lap. Somehow she had managed to drape the skirt of her gown in the most becoming of ways. The gown was black; she was still in mourning.

They were both dressed more plainly than they had been yesterday when Sansa’s party had been received in the throne room, but Sansa looked no less beautiful. Indeed, now that he could study her up close, he could see that she was nothing short of stunning.

Her skin was pale and smooth, though there were fine lines around her eyes spoke of a lifetime of smiles. Her hair was thick, the colour vivid, and Stannis’ fingers itched to feel its softness once more. Her eyes… her eyes were still enchanting.

_She is still young compared to me._

Stannis had not been able to allow himself to examine her like this on the few, scattered occasions he had been able to see her over the past decades. If he had been caught staring at her while she was wed to Brynden Blackwood it might have started all manner of tongues wagging.

Stannis had not been able to see her before her wedding to Lord Blackwood, either. There had only been letters. Innocent words that any king and any ruler of Winterfell might have exchanged, but full of meaning regardless -- if one knew how to read between the lines. He still had them.

The last letter she had written to him with her own hand had informed him of her impending marriage. Informed him that she wished to give Lord Blackwood a fair chance, and that she could not in good conscience keep up a secret correspondence with a lover while she attempted to be another man’s lady wife. Of course, she had not phrased it like that, but Stannis had understood.

 _But you will always have my loyalty, my king,_ she had written.

Stannis could still recall with perfect clarity how he had spent several evenings holding that letter over the hearth, part of him wishing to burn it, part of him unable to fathom the destruction of something as precious as parchment she had touched.

The promise she had extracted from him had eventually compelled him to stop wasting his evenings in such a manner. He was meant to do something for himself once a week. Something he enjoyed. 

And though he had many cares and many burdens, and though he missed Sansa every time the sun rose, and every time he went to sleep in an empty bed, there were many things he enjoyed.

In the early days he had mostly enjoyed spending time with Davos, Jon, and Shireen, but he had also been learning to enjoy being a grandfather. The first years after Steffon’s birth had been hard. Stannis had often vacillated between joy and jealousy; pride and despair.

It had seemed so cruel that Stannis should be forced to be content with a grandson when Sansa could so easily have borne him children of his own. The happiness that was plain in his daughter’s face every time she looked upon Jon or her son had almost been his. Stannis had been so _close._

But as time passed by, those feelings drained away. It helped that Shireen and Jon never objected when Stannis wished to spend time with the little prince. Steffon never cried or complained in his grandfather’s arms after all, so it was down to Stannis to hold him whenever he grew too fussy for his parents and his nursemaids -- even if it meant bringing the child to small council meetings.

When Jeor and Argella came along, Stannis had felt nothing but joy. 

Sansa stirred, the skirts of her gown whispering as she moved. It was the softest of sounds, but it was enough to startle Stannis from his reverie. He blinked at her, still unable to think of anything to say.

Finally, it was Sansa who spoke first. 

“How have you been faring, Your Grace?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, just savouring the sound of her voice. 

“It’s Stannis. And I’ve been… well enough.”

He looked down at his desk. ‘Well enough’ was not an adequate description of how he felt. He felt… he felt as if he had long ago learnt to function without a leg. Learnt it so well that he hardly noticed the loss. But now it was as if the lost limb was within his reach.

_So close._

His heart sped up in a way it had not done in _decades._

“And you?” he asked.

“I’ve been well.” Sansa paused and searched his face. She took a deep breath. “But I have missed you.”

He was on his feet before he realised he wanted to stand up. Sansa stood as well, facing him when he rounded the desk to get closer to her. “You wed Lord Blackwood.” His voice came out sounding strained, and his chest felt tight. “You stopped writing.”

“I’m sorry,” Sansa whispered, looking up at him. Her eyes were as they had always been: a clear light blue, and unreasonably beautiful.

Stannis felt her hand on his chest, covering his heart. 

“Do you think we made the wrong choice?” Her voice was small and uncertain.

He inhaled sharply and clenched his jaw. “We made the only choice we could.”

_We had our duties. To our families. To the realm._

They stared at each other, and Stannis noticed that they were both breathing unnaturally fast. He opened his mouth, not quite knowing what he intended to say.

Sansa did not give him a chance to figure it out. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him. 

For several seconds Stannis did not know how to respond. It had been so long since he had been kissed. So long since he had felt warm lips moving against his: pressing softly, gently. But then his muscles sprang into action, reacting as if it had been only yesterday that he had last held her in his arms. He grasped her hair with one hand and pressed the other to the middle of her back, inviting her closer. When she let out a pleased sigh, he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, tasting her.

_She still tastes the same._

A shudder made its way down his spine, and he all but crushed her to his chest as his tongue slid hungrily over hers, seeking more and more. Drowning in her perfect softness.

Arousal coursed through him as if he were a man half his age, and they moaned in unison when he canted his hips forwards, letting her feel what she could still do to him.

“Sansa,” he gasped when their lips finally parted. “ _Sansa._ ”

“Yes?” She was breathless, and looking at him with a bright light in her eyes.

“Let us not waste more time. Marry me. Be my wife.”

“Oh, Stannis… you’re - you’re right.” She was blushing like a maid and stepping back, untangling herself from his arms. “We should do this properly this time.” She shot him a shy smile.

Stannis chased her and wrapped her in his arms once more. “What do you mean?” His heart was thundering in his chest. “Is that a yes?” He kissed the shell of her ear.

Sansa extracted herself again and smoothed down the skirt of her gown. “Yes, Stannis. Of course I will marry you.”

 _Yes!_

Stannis advanced on her, his joy propelling him forwards more than his legs. He could barely feel his body. The aches of age had vanished, and he was... floating. Flying. 

Oddly, Sansa backed away. He stopped and furrowed his brow. “Then why are you running from me?” 

“We should wait, should we not? Until we are wed.” She bit her lip.

Stannis raised a brow, feeling more vigorous and alive than he’d felt in _years._ “Why should we wait?” He glanced at the desk, a heated recollection rising to the surface of his mind.

Sansa smacked his arm. “We’re much too old for that sort of thing.” Her voice was stern, but she was smiling.

They kissed again, and though Stannis was in no mood to let her go, he eventually agreed to sit back down.

 _She’s right,_ he told himself, willing his blood to cool. _We should wait and do this properly._ He would treat her the way she deserved to be treated; the way he wished he could have treated her from the start.

It would be difficult to wait until the wedding, but he had been alone for a long time. A few more days were nothing.

“Stannis?” Sansa was looking at him, her playful smile gone.

“Yes?”

“Have you been very lonely?”

He frowned. “Lonely?” 

Sansa looked down at her lap. “You and the queen... you were never very... close. And she has been gone for three years.”

Stannis felt his face heat up. “Are you asking whether my bed has been empty since you warmed it?”

She glanced up at him only to avert her gaze almost at once. “I - no. That is - that is none of my - you don’t owe me an answer to that.”

“It has. Been empty.”

There was a heavy silence.

“I never meant for you to be lonely.”

Stannis furrowed his brow, wondering how to answer her. As ever, it was only the truth that came to him. “I have missed you, Sansa. But I have not suffered. I’ve had my family just as you’ve had yours.”

“But you said Queen Selyse -”

“Selyse may not have warmed my bed, but she was a dutiful queen. She eased my burdens.”

Stannis looked out the window for a moment, remembering. 

Selyse had been a good grandmother -- if unnecessarily preoccupied with making certain the children were raised to be pious. And for all her faults, she had been a good queen. The Great Sept she built endeared her to many, her charitable work endeared her to still more. The smallfolk loved her more than they loved their stern, frightening king, and Stannis believed their grief had been genuine when she had succumbed to the illness that took her. Certainly their grief had been more keenly felt than his own, though he _had_ grieved.

He shook his head and focused his attention on Sansa. She still appeared confused. “When I spoke of family I meant Shireen and Jon. And the children,” he said, trying to explain.

“That’s not the same,” she said, her eyes sad. “You’ve had no one to - to _care_ for you. Not the way I would have wanted to.”

He swallowed, his chest feeling uncomfortably tight. He tried to speak, but the words got stuck in his throat.

“All these years I have wondered if it was not cruel of me to seduce you the way I did,” Sansa said, her voice thick with emotion. “I knew I would not be able to stay with you. I knew that we would only have -”

“I would not trade our time at Storm’s End for anything,” Stannis said, his powers of speech returning.

A charged silence followed his words.

The sadness in Sansa’s eyes faded. “Truly?”

He nodded, letting out a breath he had not realised he’d been holding. “Yes. Even if your husband had outlived me.”

She rose from her seat and made her way to his side of the desk, pulling him to his feet before he knew what was happening. Her fierce embrace knocked the air out of his lungs.

“I love you,” she said, her voice muffled.

His throat wasn’t functioning as it ought, but Stannis did not let that stop him. “I love you, too.”

She laughed into the crook of his neck, and they both held each other tighter. “How soon may we be wed?”

Stannis’ heart expanded. _My wife. My queen._ “Very soon,” he promised, and kissed her with all the fervour he could muster.

***

Sansa had loved her second husband like she had never loved Tyrion, and she had grieved his loss like she could never have grieved for the dwarf she had been forced to wed. Brynden Blackwood had been brave, gentle, and strong, he had loved her for _her_ rather than her Stark blood, and he had given her four beautiful children. They had brought her more joy than she could put into words, and guiding them through their youth had been fulfilling and peaceful.

Being Lady of Riverrun had felt right, and Sansa performed the role as best she could. The Riverlands had suffered much in the wars of the past, but while Just King Stannis sat on the Iron Throne, no wars returned to ravage the countryside. The Riverlands prospered now as they never had: the bounty of the summer seasons lasting easily through the winters. Each winter seemed shorter than the one before it, so it did not matter much that the summers were growing shorter, too.

But though Sansa had found a great deal of happiness, she had nevertheless always kept her memories of Storm’s End and Stannis tucked away safely, and devoted a part of her heart to him. She kept all his letters, and found occasions to wear the bracelet of sapphires he had given her as often as she could, never failing to smile when she looked at it. Not satisfied with these reminders of him, Sansa had also done as she had promised upon her return to Winterfell, and named a goshawk hatchling Proudwing. The bird had been her favourite from then on out, and she kept it still, even though at nearly thirty years of age it was too old to hunt, and older than any other bird of its kind Sansa knew of.

Stannis had smiled when she had told him of it. But he wasn’t smiling now.

“What did Jon say to you?” Sansa said to her new husband, her third, suppressing her amusement at the affronted expression on his face.

Though their wedding had been relatively small on a royal scale, there had still been a magnificent feast to honour the king and the his new bride, and the court had _insisted_ on a bedding. A very respectful bedding in Sansa’s case, and only moderately less respectful for Stannis from the look of things.

 _I wonder who was brave enough to take his boot?_ she thought, noticing that he was only wearing one. _One of Wylla Manderly’s daughters, probably…_

“He warned me to treat you well,” Stannis said with a scowl.

“Really?” Sansa raised a brow. “It looked as if he were telling you a joke.”

“ _He_ was very amused,” Stannis muttered.

“But you were not?” It was becoming a struggle to keep her own mirth at bay.

“No.” Stannis sat down on the bed next to her and removed his remaining boot.

“Not even a little?” she teased, kissing his cheek. Ever since that afternoon in Stannis’ solar it was as if the years had melted away. There had been no awkwardness between them. No strange period where they had needed to get to know each other again. They had simply fallen into step -- as if they had been walking next to each other for years.

“No,” Stannis repeated, glaring. But his lips twitched, betraying him.

“All right, darling,” Sansa said, shooing his hands away from the buttons of his doublet and unbuttoning them for him. He would never admit it, but it was obvious to her that his eyesight was not as it had been.

“‘Darling’?” Stannis raised a brow at her.

She had been holding herself back during their short betrothal, but endearments came to her lips very naturally after years of childrearing. Not to mention that fact that she was a grandmother three times over. “Get used to it,” she said pertly, “you are one of my darlings now.”

“Not in public,” Stannis groused, but his eyes looked very pleased.

“Of course,” she agreed, finishing her work with the buttons and helping him pull the doublet off.

“What did Shireen say to you?” he asked, changing the subject.

“She wished us every happiness,” Sansa said, smiling at the memory. She would never forget how Shireen had accepted Sansa’s relationship with her father, nor would she forget the gleam in her dark blue eyes when she had whispered, _”welcome to the family,”_ and given a sincere smile. “She’s a kind, intelligent woman.” _She will be a wonderful queen._

Stannis hummed in agreement, a proud expression on his face.

They worked together in silence until Stannis’ chest was bare.

She bit her lip and wondered why she had insisted on waiting until their wedding night to do this. Excitement coiled within her, but her nerves tingled, too.

“You’re still so strong,” she whispered, running her hands up and down his arms, and smiling at the grey hair that covered his upper chest. His skin sagged here and there, but Stannis could easily have passed for a man fifteen or even twenty years younger.

“And you haven’t aged a day,” he said, his voice graveled.

Sansa felt herself blush and immediately shook her head at herself. She was being very silly. _He_ was being very silly. She had changed quite a bit over the years. Seven pregnancies - four of which had resulted in healthy children - had taken their toll on her body. Though she retained her tall, slim figure, her stomach was no longer flat and taut, and her hips were wider. Her breasts no longer rested high on her chest as they once had, and her face was lined. Smile lines for the most part, thankfully.

She was proud of her hair, however. She had always taken good care of it, and though the colour had faded a little over the years, it was still long and lustrous. Stannis helped her unwind her plaits and pick out the kingcups that decorated them. He took a moment to bring one of the flowers to his nose to inhale its scent, and their eyes met for a long moment. Sansa knew they were both thinking the same thing.

_For you, Your Grace. Kingcups for a king._

They continued undressing each other, stopping to touch and kiss whenever they felt like it, and whispering to each other.

“-remember this?-”

“-do you still like being touched here?-”

“-careful, that tickles-”

Stannis kissed her belly reverently once it was exposed, not seeming to mind the loose skin in the least. He stroked her hips and her thighs, and Sansa could not help but wonder whether his hands trembled because he was older, or whether it was due to emotion.

All she knew was that when she trembled at his touch, it was not due to age.

“These are pretty,” Stannis said as he toyed with the ribbons that held her smallclothes in place. There was something in his eyes that made her rise up on her elbows and take a closer look. _Pleasure? Amusement?_

“I didn’t realise you had developed a taste for such frivolities,” she said, still trying to puzzle him out.

Stannis pursed his lips. “Perhaps it is just that the fabric is new,” he said, his tone thoughtful.

She furrowed her brow. Of course her wedding smallclothes were _new._ Why would he point that out?

“I’m used to looking at these, you see,” Stannis murmured, reaching underneath the pillow on his side of the bed and pulling out a bundle of silk and ribbons.

 _Smallclothes,_ she realised. The silk looked thin. Old. And the embroidered pattern along the edges was no longer fashionable, though Sansa could well recall that it had been, once.

For a heartbeat she was terribly confused, but all at once the memory came: sharp and sweet.

“You found my gift, then?” she said, smiling softly.

“Not a terribly dignified keepsake,” Stannis said, repeating his trick of sounding disgruntled but looking anything but.

Her heart soaring, she kissed him. “I’m glad you kept them.”

Their eyes met, and Sansa wondered if his love for her had always been so clearly and expressly _present_ in those dark blue depths.

But then they were kissing and touching more urgently, and her thoughts became a disorganised flurry. Her new smallclothes fell away, and Stannis looked at her as if he could hardly believe what he was seeing. She blushed like some maiden, and in order to distract herself - and him - she made him naked, too.

The curls that surrounded his manhood had turned grey. Other than that, he looked very much the same, and responded in precisely the same way when she wrapped her fingers around his shaft. There was a hiss of pleasure, and a lustful jerk of his hips.

“Sansa…”

Her own body did not need very much coaxing. She had found that she had become more responsive over the years, and once she had made it past five and thirty years of age, Brynden had barely needed to touch her to bring her to her peak. Everything was simply easier.

When her moonblood had stopped flowing two years ago things had changed again, and for a while her interest in lying with her husband had waned. But when the night sweats had stopped, and her temper had stopped flaring, she had found herself enjoying his touch once more.

This was different, however. This was _Stannis._

“Husband,” Sansa whispered, guiding Stannis’ manhood to the right place and spreading her thighs in welcome.

“My queen,” Stannis rasped in return, his breath hot in her ear.

They joined together with a mutual sigh of relief.

Brynden had been a good lover, but feeling Stannis inside her stirred sense memories that made her heart start to race like it never had with her second husband.

_Stannis._

His thrusts were urgent at first, but soon they became more leisurely. Each smooth stroke created the sort of friction that made her toes curl and dragged wanton moans from her throat.

“Does it feel different?” she asked him, breathing the words into his ear, wondering if the years and all her pregnancies had changed her very much inside.

“No. You’re perfect,” he groaned, kissing her soundly.

She tightened her grip on his back, digging her nails in, and allowed the pleasure of his words and his body to overwhelm her.

He didn’t last very long after that, but Sansa found - as she lay in the arms of her third husband, her first love, sated, sweaty, and happy - that she did not mind in the least.

They had the rest of their lives.

**The end.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, and special thanks to those of you who have been commenting and making the experience of posting this story so rewarding!
> 
> I would also like to thank EmynIthilien again from the bottom of my heart for writing _To Play it With You_ , beta-reading, and being incredibly supportive of me hijacking another one of her amazing AUs for the purpose of letting Stannis and Sansa have a little romance. 
> 
> Love and hugs to you all! ♥


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